THIRTY  POEMS 


WILLIAM    CITLLEN    BKYANT 


NEW   YOEK: 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 
443  &  445  BROADWAY. 

LONDON: 16    LITTLE    BRITAIN. 
M.DCCC.LXIV. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863,  by 

D.  APPLETON   AND   COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  foi  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


TO    THE    EEADEK. 


THE  author  has  attempted  no  other  classifi 
cation  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  than  that  of 
allowing  them  to  follow  each  other  according 
to  the  order  of  time  in  winch  they  were  writ 
ten.  It  has  seemed  to  him  that  this  arrange 
ment  is  as  satisfactory  as  any  other,  since,  at 
different  periods  of  life,  an  author's  style  and 
habits  of  thought  may  be  supposed  to  undergo 
very  considerable  modifications.  One  poem 


4  TO   THE   READER. 

forms  an  exception  to  this  order  of  succession, 
and  should  have  appeared  in  an  earlier  collec 
tion.  Three  others  have  already  appeared  in 
an  illustrated  edition  of  the  author's  poems. 

NEW  YORK,  December,  1863. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS.  Page 

The  Planting  of  the  Apple  Tree,    iv      .     :  >  v  9 

The  Snow  Shower,    .        .        .*„..;.  v~.:*        .  14 

A  Eain  Dream,       .        •'     !,»:>cV   '     •  18 

Robert  of  Lincoln,  ..       .•  .  np.        ...  23 

The  Twenty-Seventh  of  March,     ...  28 

An  Invitation  to  the  Country,    ....  32 

Song  for  New- Year's  Eve,      .^      ...      .        .  35 

The  "Wind  and  Stream, 38 

The  Lost  Bird. — From,  the  Spanish  of  Carolina 

Coronado,        .....        .        .  40 

The  Night  Journey  of  a  Eiver,          ...  43 


6  CONTENTS. 

POEMS.  Page 

The  Life  that  Is, 49 

Song.—"  These  Prairies  Glow  with  Flowers,"  53 

A  Sick-Bed,   .        ...        .        .        .        .  55 

The  Song  of  the  Sower, 59 

The  New  and  the  Old,    ......  TO 

The  Cloud  on.  the  "Way,      .        .        ...  73 

The  Tides,      .%  ;.;••'•;>';/  •;;  V  ",;  v • '.;•       .        .  V8 
Italy,          ...        .        .        .        .        .        .81 

A  Day  Dream,        ......  85 

The  Euins  of  Italica. — From  the  Spanish  of  Rioja,  90 

Waiting  by  the  Gate,         «  j  x  i        .        .        .  96 

Not  Yet,        .        .        .        ,        .        .        .  101 

Our  Country's  Call,            .       r;  '  :   ."  ;    •.     '  '.  104 

The  Constellations, 108 

The  Third  of  November,  1861,  .  .  .112 
The  Mother's  Hymn,  .  .-  .  .'  -.  116 
Sella,  .  .  .  '-,*  ''.  :  .  .  .  118 
The  Fifth  Book  of  Homer's  Odyssey.— Transla 
ted,  ...»  .  .  '  .  '  .  ".  150 
The  Little  People  of  the  Snow,  •  : .  ;;  -.! : :  .  184 

The  Poet, 207 

NOTES,     .        .        .  211 


POEMS. 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE  TREE. 

COME,  let  us  plant  the  apple  tree. 
Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade ; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made ; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As,  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet 
"We  softly  fold  the  cradle  sheet ; 

So  plant  we  the  apple  tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple  tree  ? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays  ; 
1* 


10  POEMS. 

Boughs  where  the  thrush,  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt  and  sing  and  hide  her  nest ; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple  tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple  tree  ? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs, 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard  row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors ; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple  tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple  tree  ? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE  TKEE.    11 

And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple  tree. 

And  when,  above  this  apple  tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage  hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  'grape  of  Cintra's  vine, 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 

The  fruit  of  the  apple  tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple  tree 
Winds,  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 


....   , ...    , 


12  POEMS. 

"Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view. 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew  ; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day, 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple  tree. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple  tree 
A.  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 
The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple  tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple  tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE  TREE.    13 

Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still  ? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years, 

Is  wasting  this  apple  tree  ? 

"  Who  planted  this  old  apple  tree  ?  " 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say  ; 
And  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them  : 

"  A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times  ; 
'Tis  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes 
On  planting  the  apple  tree." 


THE    SNOW-SHOWER. 

STAND  here  by  my  side  and  turn,  I  pray, 
On  the  lake  below  thy  gentle  eyes  ; 

The  clouds  hang  over  it,  heavy  and  gray, 
And  dark  and  silent  the  water  lies  ; 

And  out  of  that  frozen  mist  the  snow 

In  wavering  flakes  begins  to  flow ; 

Flake  after  flake, 

They  sink  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

See  how  in  a  living  swarm  they  come 

From  the  chambers  beyond  that  misty  veil ; 

Some  hover  awhile  in  air,  and  some 

Rush  prone  from  the  sky  like  summer  hail. 


THE    SNOW-SHOWER.  15 

All,  dropping  swiftly  or  settling  slow, 
Meet,  and  are  still  in  the  depths  below ; 

Flake  after  flake 
Dissolved  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


Here  delicate  snow-stars,  out  of  the  cloud, 

Come  floating  downward  in  airy  play, 
Like   spangles   dropped   from    the    glistening 

crowd 

That  whiten  by  night  the  milky  way  ; 
There  broader  and  burlier  masses  fall ; 
The  sullen  water  buries  them  all — 

Flake  after  flake — 
All  drowned  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


And  some,  as  on  tender  wings  they  glide 
From  their  chilly  birth-cloud,  dim  and  gray, 

Are  joined  in  their  fall,  and,  side  by  side, 
Come  clinging  along  their  unsteady  way  ; 


16  POEMS. 

As  friend  with  friend,  or  husband  with  wife 
Makes  hand  in  hand  the  passage  of  life  ; 
Each  mated  flake 

Soon  sinks  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

if 

Lo !  while  we  are  gazing,  in  swifter  haste 

Stream  down  the  snows,  till  the  air  is  white, 
As,  myriads  by  myriads  madly  chased, 

They  fling  themselves  from  their  shadowy 

height. 

The  fair,  frail  creatures  of  middle  sky, 
What    speed    they  make,  with   their  grave  so 
nigh; 

Flake  after  flake, 
To  lie  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake  ! 


I  see  in  thy  gentle  eyes  a  tear ; 

They  turn  to  me  in  sorrowful  thought ; 
Thou  thinkest  of  friends,  the  good  and  dear, 

Who  were  for  a  time  and  now  are  not ; 


THE   SNOW-SHOWER.  17 

Like  these  fair  children  of  cloud  and  frost, 
That  glisten  a  moment  and  then  are  lost, 

Flake  after  flake — 
All  lost  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 

Yet  look  again,  for  the  clouds  divide ; 

A  gleam  of  blue  on  the  water  lies  ; 
And  far  away,  on  the  mountain-side, 

A  sunbeam  falls  from  the  opening  skies. 
But  the  hurrying  host  that  flew  between 
The  cloud  and  the  water,  no  more  is  seen  ; 

Flake  after  flake, 
At  rest  in  the  dark  and  silent  lake. 


A  KAIN  DEEAM. 

THESE  strifes,  these  tumults  of  the  noisy  world, 
"Where  Fraud,  the  coward,  tracks  his  prey  by 

stealth, 

And  Strength,  the  ruffian,  glories  in  his  guilt, 
Oppress  the  heart  with  sadness.  Oh,  my  friend, 
In  what  serener  mood  we  look  upon 
The  gloomiest  aspects  of  the  elements 
Among  the  woods  and  fields  !     Let  us  awhile, 
As  the  slow  wind  is  rolling  up  the  storm, 
In  fancy  leave  this  maze  of  dusty  streets, 
For  ever  shaken  by  the  importunate  jar 
Of  commerce,  and  upon  the  darkening  air 
Look  from  the  shelter  of  our  rural  home. 


A   RAIN    DKEAM.  19 

Who  is  not  awed  that  listens  to  the  Bain, 
Sending  his  voice  before  him  ?     Mighty  Kain  ! 
The  upland  steeps  are  shrouded  by  thy  mists  ; 
Thy  shadow  fills  the  hollow  vale ;  the  pools 
No  longer  glimmer,  and  the  silvery  streams 
Darken  to  veins  of  lead  at  thy  approach. 
Oh,  mighty  Eain  !  already  thou  art  here  ; 
And  every  roof  is  beaten  by  thy  streams, 
And,  as  thou  passest,  every  glassy  spring 
Grows  rough,,  and  every  leaf  in  all  the  woods 
Is  struck,  and  quivers.     All  the  hill-tops  slake 
Their  thirst  from  thee  ;  a  thousand  languishing 

fields, 

A  thousand  fainting  gardens,  are  refreshed ; 
A  thousand  idle  rivulets  start  to  speed, 
And  with  the  graver  murmur  of  the  storm 
Blend  their  light  voices  as  they  hurry  on. 

Thou  fill'st  the  circle  of  the  atmosphere 
Alone  ;  there  is  no  living  thing  abroad, 
~No  bird  to  wing  the  air  nor  beast  to  walk 
The  field :  the  squirrel  in  the  forest  seeks 


20  POEMS. 

His  hollow  tree  ;  the  marmot  of  the  field 
Has  scampered  to  his  den  ;  the  butterfly- 
Hides  under  her  broad  leaf ;  the  insect  crowds 
That  made  the  sunshine  populous,  lie  close 
In  their  mysterious  shelters,  whence  the  sun 
Will  summon  them  again.    The  mighty  Rain 
Holds  the  vast  empire  of  the  sky  alone. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  and  see,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  friendly  clouds  drop  down  spring  violets 
And  summer  columbines,  and  all  the  flowers 
That  tuft  the  woodland  floor,  or  overarch 
The  streamlet : — spiky  grass  for  genial  June, 
Brown  harvests  for  the  waiting  husbandman, 
And  for  the  woods  a  deluge  of  fresh  leaves. 

I  see  these  myriad  drops  that  slake  the  dust, 
Gathered  in  glorious  streams,  or  rolling  blue 
In  billows  on  the  lake  or  on  the  deep 
And  bearing  navies.     I  behold  them  change 
To  threads  of  crystal  as  they  sink  in  earth 
And  leave  its  stains  behind,  to  rise  again 
In  pleasant  nooks  of  verdure,  where  the  child, 


A   KAIN    DREAM.  21 

Thirsty  with  play,  in  both  his  little  hands 
Shall  take  the  cool,  clear  water,  raising  it 
To  wet  his  pretty  lips.     To-morrow  noon 
How  proudly  will  the  water-lily  ride 
The  brimming  pool,  o'erlooking,  like  a  queen, 
Her  circle  of  broad  leaves.     In  lonely  wastes, 
"When  next  the  sunshine  makes  them  beautiful, 
Gay  troops  of  butterflies  shall  light  to  drink 
At  the  replenished  hollows  of  the  rock. 

Now  slowly  falls  the  dull  blank  night,  and 

still, 

All  through  the  starless  hours,  the  mighty  Rain 
Smites  with  perpetual  sound  the  forest  leaves, 
And  beats  the  matted  grass,  and  still  the  earth 
Drinks  the  unstinted  bounty  of  the  clouds — 
Drinks  for  her   cottage  wells,  her  woodland 

brooks — 

Drinks  for  the  springing  trout,  the  toiling  bee 
And    brooding   bird — drinks    for    her    tender 

flowers, 
Tall  oaks,  and  all  the  herbage  of  her  hills. 


22  POEMS. 

A  melancholy  sound  is  in  the  air, 
A  deep  sigh  in  the  distance,  a  shrill  wail 
Around  my  dwelling.     'Tis  the  wind  of  night ; 
A  lonely  wanderer  between  earth  and  cloud, 
In  the  black  shadow  and  the  chilly  mist, 
Along     the     streaming    mountain    side,    and 

through 

The  dripping  woods,  and  o'er  the  plashy  fields, 
Roaming   and   sorrowing  still,   like   one   who 

makes 

The  journey  of  life  alone,  and  nowhere  meets 
A  welcome  or  a  friend,  and  still  goes  on 
In  darkness.     Yet  awhile,  a  little  while, 
And  he  shall  toss  the  glittering  leaves  in  play, 
And  dally  with  the  flowers,  and  gaily  lift 
The  slender  herbs,  pressed  low  by  weight  of 

rain, 

And  drive,  in  joyous  triumph,  through  the  sky, 
"White   clouds,   the  laggard  remnants   of  the 

storm. 


EGBERT  OF  LINCOLN. 

MEERILY  swinging  on  briar  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name  : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  i,s  gaily  drest, 

"Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding  coat ; 

White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest, 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note  : 


24:  POEMS. 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Brood,  kind  creature  ;  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she  ; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 

Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat : 


EGBERT   OF    LINCOLN.  25 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man  ; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight ! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Nice,  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell 
Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food  ; 

Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood. 
2 


26  POEMS. 

Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  cliee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care ; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
"Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes  ;  the  children  are  grown  ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows  ; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone  ; 

Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes  : 


EGBERT   OF   LINCOLN.  27 


BoW-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink ; 
When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


THE  TWENTY-SEVENTH  OF  MAKCH. 

OH,  gentle  one,  thy  birthday  sun  should  rise 
Amid  a  chorus  of  the  merriest  birds 
That  ever  sang  the  stars  out  of  the  sky 
In  a  June  morning.     Rivulets  should  send 
A  voice  of  gladness  from  their  winding  paths, 
Deep  in  o'erarching  grass,  where  playful  winds, 
Stirring  the  loaded  stems   should  shower  the, 

dew 

Upon  the  glassy  water.     Newly  blown 
Roses,  by  thousands,  to  the  garden  walks 
Should  tempt  the  loitering  moth  and  diligent 

bee. 
The  longest,  brightest  day  in  all  the  year 


THE   TWENTY-SEVENTH    OF   MAKCH.  29 

Should  be  the  day  on  which  thy  cheerful  eyes 
First  opened  on  the  earth,  to  make  thy  haunts 
Fairer  and  gladder  for  thy  kindly  looks. 

Thus  might  a  poet  say  ;  but  I  must  bring 
A  birthday  offering  of  an  humbler  strain, 
And  yet  it  may  not  please  thee  less.     I  hold 
That  'twas  the  fitting  season  for  thy  birth 
When  March,  just  ready  to  depart,  begins 
To  soften  into  April.     Then  we  have 
The  delicatest  and  most  welcome  flowers, 
And  yet  they  take  least  heed  of  bitter  wind 
And  lowering  sky.     The  periwinkle  then, 
In  an  hour's  sunshine,  lifts  her  azure  blooms 
Beside  the  cottage  door  ;  within  the  woods 
Tufts  of  ground-laurel,  creeping  underneath 
The  leaves  of  the  last  summer,  send  their  sweets 
Up  to  the  chilly  air;  and,  by  the  oak, 
The  squirrel-cups,  a  graceful  company, 
Hide  in  their  bells  a  soft  aerial  blue — 
Sweet  flowers,   that  nestle    in   the    humblest 
nooks, 


30  POEMS. 

And  yet  within  whose  smallest  bud  is  wrapt 
A  world   of  promise !     Still  the  north  wind 

breathes 

His  frost,  and  still  the  sky  sheds  snow  and  sleet ; 
Yet  ever,  when  the  sun  looks  forth  again, 
The  flowers  smile  up  to  him  from  their  low 

seats. 
"Well  hast  thou  borne  the  bleak  March  day  of 

life. 

Its  storms  and  its  keen  winds  to  thee  have  been 
Most  kindly  tempered,  and  through  all  its  gloom 
There  has  been  warmth  and  sunshine  in  thy 

heart ; 

The  griefs  of  life  to  thee  have  been  like  snows, 
That  light  upon  the  fields  in  early  spring, 
Making  them  greener.     In  its  milder  hours, 
The  smile  of  this  pale  season,  thou  hast  seen, 
The  glorious  bloom  of  June,  and  in  the  note 
Of  early  bird,  that  comes  a  messenger 
From   climes   of   endless  verdure,   thou    hast 

heard 


THE   TWENTY-SEVENTH   OP  MAKCH.  31 

The  choir  that  fills  the  summer  woods  with 

song. 

Now  be  the  hours  that  yet  remain  to  thee 
Stormy  or  sunny,  sympathy  and  love, 
That  inextinguishably  dwell  within 
Thy  heart,  shall  give  a  beauty  and  a  light 
To  the  most  desolate  moments,  like  the  glow 
Of  a  bright  fireside  in  the  wildest  day  ; 
And  kindly  words  and  offices  of  good 
Shall  wait  upon  thy  steps,  as  thou  goest  on, 
Where  God  shall  lead  thee,  till  thou  reach  the 


Of  a  more  genial  season,  and  thy  path 
Be  lost  to  human  eye  among  the  bowers 
And  living  fountains  of  a  brighter  land. 

Written  March,  1855. 


AN  INVITATION  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 

ALREADY,  close  by  our  summer  dwelling, 
The  Easter  sparrow  repeats  her  song  ; 

A  merry  warbler,  she  chides  the  blossoms — 
The  idle  blossoms  that  sleep  so  long. 

The    blue-bird    chants,   from   the   elm's  long 
branches, 

A  hymn  to  welcome  the  budding  year. 
The  south  wind  wanders  from  field  to  forest, 

And  softly  whispers  :  the  Spring  is  here. 

Come,  daughter  mine,  from  the  gloomy  city, 
Before  those  lays  from  the  elm  have  ceased  ; 

The  violet  breathes,  by  our  door,  as  sweetly 
As  in  the  air  of  her  native  East. 


AN   INVITATION   TO   THE   COUNTRY.  33 

Though  many  a  flower  in  the  wood  is  waking, 
The  daffodil  is  our  doorside  queen  ; 

She  pushes  upward  the  sward  already, 
To  spot  with  sunshine  the  early  green. 

No  ]ays  so  joyous  as  these  are  warbled 
From  wiry  prison  in  maiden's  bower  ; 

~No  pampered  bloom  of  the  greenhouse  cham 
ber 
Has  half  the  charm  of  the  lawn's  first  flower. 

Yet  these  sweet  sounds  of  the  early  season, 
And  these  fair  sights  of  its  sunny  days 

Are  only  sweet  when  we  fondly  listen, 
And  only  fair  when  we  fondly  gaze. 

There  is  no  glory  in  star  or  blossom, 
Till  looked  upon  by  a  loving  eye  ; 

There  is  no  fragrance  in  April  breezes, 
Till  breathed  with  joy  as  they  wander  by. 
2* 


34:  POEMS. 


Come,  Julia  dear,  for  the  sprouting  willows, 
The    opening    flowers,    and    the    gleaming 
brooks, 

And  hollows,  green  in  the  sun,  are  waiting 
Their  dower  of  beauty  from  thy  glad  looks. 


A  SONG  FOE  NEW  YEAK'S  EYE. 


h 


STAY  yet,  my  friends,  a  moment  stay — 

Stay  till  the  good  old  year, 
So  long  companion  of  our  way, 

Shakes  hands,  and  leaves  us  here. 

Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 
One  little  hour,  and  then  away. 

The  year,  whose  hopes  were  high  and  strong, 

Has  now  no  hopes  to  wake  ; 
Yet  one  hour  more  of  jest  and  song 

For  his  familiar  sake. 

Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 
One  mirthful  hour,  and  then  away. 


36  POEMS. 

The  kindly  year,  his  liberal  hands 

Have  lavished  all  his  store. 
And  shall  we  turn  from  where  he  stands, 

Because  he  gives  no  more  ? 

Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 
One  grateful  hour,  and  then  away. 

\  -  •  .  • 

Days  brightly  came  and  calmly  went, 

"While  yet  he  was  our  guest ; 
How  cheerfully  the  week  was  spent ! 
How  sweet  the  seventh  day's  rest ! 

Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 
One  golden  hour,  and  then  away. 

Dear  friends  were  with  us,  some  who  sleep 

Beneath  the  coffin  lid  : 
What  pleasant  memories  we  keep 

Of  all  they  said  and  did  ! 

Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 
One  tender  hour,  and  then  away. 


37 


Even  while  we  sing  he  smiles  his  last 
And  leaves  our  sphere  behind. 

The  good  old  year  is  with  the  past ; 
Oh  be  the  new  as  kind  ! 
Oh  stay,  oh  stay, 

One  parting  strain,  and  then  away. 


THE  WIND  AND  STKEAM. 

A  BKOOK  came  stealing  from  the  ground  ; 

You  scarcely  saw  its  silvery  gleam 
Among  the  herbs  that  hung  around 

The  borders  of  that  winding  stream, 
The  pretty  stream,  the  placid  stream, 
The  softly  gliding,  bashful  stream. 

A  breeze  came  wandering  from  the  sky, 
Light  as  the  whispers  of  a  dream  ; 

He  put  the  o'erhanging  grasses  by, 
And  softly  stooped  to  kiss  the  stream, 

The  pretty  stream,  the  flattered  stream, 

The  shy,  yet  unreluctant  stream. 


THE   WIND   AND    STREAM.  39 

The  water,  as  the  wind  passed  o'er, 
Shot  upward  many  a  glancing  beam, 

Dimpled  and  quivered  more  and  more, 
And  tripped  along,  a  livelier  stream. 

The  flattered  stream,  the  simpering  stream, 

The  fond,  delighted,  silly  stream. 

Away  the  airy  wanderer  flew 

To  where  the  fields  with  blossoms  teem, 
To  sparkling  springs  and  rivers  blue, 

And  left  alone  that  little  stream, 
The  flattered  stream,  the  cheated  stream, 
The  sad,  forsaken,  lonely  stream. 

That  careless  wind  came  never  back  ; 

He  wanders  yet  the  fields  I  deem, 
But,  on  its  melancholy  track, 

Complaining  went  that  little  stream, 
The  cheated  stream,  the  hopeless  stream, 
The  ever-murmuring,  mourning  stream. 


THE  LOST    BIRD. 

From  the  /Spanish  of  CAROLINA  COKONADO  DE  PERKY. 

MY  bird  has  flown  away, 

Far  out  of  sight  has  flown,  I  know  not  where. 
Look  in  your  lawn,  I  pray, 
Ye  maidens,  kind  and  fair, 

And  see  if  my  beloved  bird  be  there. 

His  eyes  are  full  of  light ; 
The  eagle  of  the  rock  has  such  an  eye  ; 
And  plumes,  exceeding  bright, 


THE   LOST   BIKD.  4:1 

Round  his  smooth  temples  lie, 
And  sweet  his  voice  and  tender  as  a  sigh. 

Look  where  the  grass  is  gay 
With  summer  blossoms,  haply  there  he  cowers ; 

And  search,  from  spray  to  spray, 

The  leafy  laurel  bowers, 
For  well  he  loves  the  laurels  and  the  flowers. 

Find  him,  but  do  not  dwell, 
With  eyes  too  fond,  on  the  fair  form  you  see, 

Nor  love  his  song  too  well ; 

Send  him,  at  once,  to  me, 
Or  leave  him  to  the  air  and  liberty. 

For  only  from  my  hand 
He  takes  the  seed  into  his  golden  beak, 
And  all  un wiped  shall  stand 
The  tears  that  wet  my  cheek, 
Till  I  have  found  the  wanderer  I  seek. 


42  POEMS. 

My  sight  is  darkened  o'er, 
Whene'er  I  miss  his  eyes,  which  are  my  day, 

And  when  I  hear  no  more 

The  music  of  his  lay, 
My  heart  in  utter  sadness  faints  away. 


THE  NIGHT  JOURNEY  OF  A  RIYER. 

OH  River,  gentle  River  !  gliding  on 

In  silence  underneath  this  starless  sky  ! 

Thine  is  a  ministry  that  never  rests 

Even  while  the  living  slumber.     For  a  time 

The  meddler,  man,  hath  left  the  elements 

In  peace ;  the  ploughman  breaks  the  clods  no 

more ; 

The  miner  labors  not,  with  steel  and  fire, 
To  rend  the  rock,  and  he  that  hews  the  stone, 
And  he  that  fells  the  forest,  he  that  guides 
The  loaded  wain,  and  the  poor  animal 
That  drags  it,  have  forgotten,  for  a  time, 
Their  toils,  and  share  the  quiet  of  the  earth. 
Thou  pausest  not  in  thine  allotted  task, 


44  POEMS. 

Oh  darkling  River  !     Through  the  night  I  hear 
Thy  wavelets  rippling  on  the  pebbly  beach  ; 
I  hear  thy  current  stir  the  rustling  sedge, 
That  skirts  thy  bed  ;  thou  intermittest  not 
Thine  everlasting  journey,  drawing  on 
A  silvery  train  from  many  a  woodland  spring, 
And  mountain  brook.  The  dweller  by  thy  side, 
Who  moored  his  little  boat  upon  thy  beach, 
Though  all  the  waters  that  upbore  it  then 
Have  slid  away  o'er  night,  shall  find,  at  morn, 
Thy  channel  filled  with  waters  freshly  drawn 
From  distant  cliffs  and  hollows  where  the  rill 
Comes  up  amid  the  water-flags.     All  night 
Thou  givest  moisture  to  the  thirsty  roots 
Of  the  lithe  willow  and  o'erhanging  plane, 
And  cherishest  the  herbage  of  thy  bank, 
Spotted  with  little  flowers,  and  sendest  up 
Perpetually,  the  vapors  from  thy  face, 
To  steep  the  hills  with  dew,  or  darken  heaven 
"With  drifting  clouds,  that  trail  the  shadowy 
shower. 


THE    NIGHT   JOURNEY    OF   A   KIVER.  45 

Oh  River  !  darkling  River  !  what  a  voice 
Is  that  thou  utterest  while  all  else  is  still — 
The  ancient  voice  that,  centuries  ago, 
Sounded  between  thy  hills,  while  Rome  was  yet 
A  weedy  solitude  by  Tiber's  stream. 
How  many,  at  this  hour,  along  thy  course, 
Slumber  to  thine  eternal  murmurings, 
That  mingle  with  the  utterance  of  their  dreams ! 
At  dead  of  night  the  child  awakes  and  hears 
Thy  soft,  familiar  dashings,  and  is  soothed, 
And  sleeps  again.     An  airy  multitude 
Of  little  echoes,  all  unheard  by  day, 
Faintly  repeat,  till  morning,  after  thee, 
The  story  of  thine  endless  goings  forth. 

Yet  there  are  those  who  lie  beside  thy  bed 
For  whom  thou  once  didst  rear  the  bowers  that 

screen 

Thy  margin,  and  didst  water  the  green  fields  ; 
And  now  there  is  no  night  so  still  that  they 
Can  hear  thy  lapse ;  their  slumbers,  were  thy 

voice 


4-6  POEMS. 

Louder  than  ocean's,  it  could  never  break. 
For  them  the  early  violet  no  more 
Opens  upon  thy  bank,  nor,  for  their  eyes, 
Glitter  the  crimson  pictures  of  the  clouds, 
Upon  thy  bosom,  when  the  sun  goes  down. 
Their  memories  are  abroad,  the  memories 
Of  those  who  last  were  gathered  to  the  earth, 
Lingering  within  the  homes  in  which  they  sat, 
Hovering  above  the  paths  in  which  they  walked, 
Haunting  them  like  a  presence.     Even  now 
They  visit  many  a  dreamer  in  the  forms 
They   walked  in,  ere   at  last  they  wore  the 

shroud. 
And  eyes  there  are  which  will  not  close  to 

dream, 

For  weeping  and  for  thinking  of  the  grave, 
The  new-made  grave,  and  the  pale  one  within. 
These  memories  and  these  sorrows  all  shall  fade, 
And  pass  away,  and  fresher  memories 
And  newer  sorrows  come  and  dwell  awhile, 
Beside  thy  borders,  and,  in  turn,  depart. 


THE   NIGHT  JOURNEY   OF   A  RIVEK.  4:7 

On  glide  thy  waters,  till  at  last  they  flow 
Beneath  the  windows  of  the  populous  town, 
And  all  night  long  give  back  the  gleam  of 

lamps, 
And  glimmer  with  the  trains   of  light  that 

stream 

From  halls  where  dancers  whirl.  A  dimmer  ray 
Touches  thy  surface  from  the  silent  room 
In  which  they  tend  the  sick,  or  gather  round 
The  dying  ;  and  a  slender,  steady  beam 
Comes  from  the  little  chamber,  in  the  roof 
Where,  with  a  feverous  crimson  on  her  cheek, 
The  solitary  damsel,  dying,  too, 
Plies  the  quick  needle  till  the  stars  grow  pale. 
There,  close  beside  the  haunts  of  revel,  stand 
The  blank,  unlighted  windows,  where  the  poor, 
In  hunger  and  in  darkness,  wake  till  morn. 
There,  drowsily,  on  the  half  conscious  ear 
Of  the  dull  watchman,  pacing  on  the  wharf, 
Falls  the  soft  ripple  of  the  waves  that  strike 
On  the  moored  bark  ;  but  guiltier  listeners 


48  POEMS. 

Are  nigh,  the  prowlers  of  the  night,  who  steal 
From  shadowy  nook  to  shadowy  nook,  and  start 
If  other  sounds  than  thine  are  in  the  air. 

Oh,  glide  away  from  those  abodes,  that  bring 
Pollution  to  thy  channel  and  make  foul 
Thy  once  clear   current ;   summon  thy  quick 

waves 

And  dimpling  eddies  ;  linger  not,  but  haste, 
With  all  thy  waters,  haste  thee  to  the  deep, 
There  to  be  tossed  by  shifting  winds  and  rocked 
By  that  mysterious  force  which  lives  within 
The  sea's  immensity,  and  wields  the  weight 
Of  its  abysses,  swaying  to  and  fro 
The  billowy  mass,  until  the  stain,  at  length, 
Shall  wholly  pass  away,  and  thou  regain 
The  crystal  brightness  of  thy  mountain  springs. 


THE  LIFE  THAT  IS. 

THOU,  who  so  long  hast  pressed  the  couch  of 

pain, 
Oh   welcome,   welcome  back   to  life's   free 

breath — 
To   life's  free  breath   and   day's   sweet  light 

again, 
From  the  chill  shadows  of  the  gate  of  death. 

For  thou  hadst  reached  the  twilight  bound  be 
tween 

The  world  of  spirits  and  this  grosser  sphere ; 
Dimly  by  thee  the  things  of  earth  were  seen, 
And  faintly  fell  earth's  voices  on  thine  ear. 
3 


50  POEMS. 

And  now,  how  gladly  we  behold,  at  last, 
The  wonted  smile  returning  to  thy  brow ; 

The  very  wind's  low  whisper,  breathing  past, 
In  the  light  leaves,  is  music  to  thee  now. 

Thou  wert  not  weary  of  thy  lot ;  the  earth 
"Was  ever  good  and  pleasant  in  thy  sight ; 

Still    clung  thy   loves    about  the    household 

hearth, 
And  sweet  was  every  day's  returning  light. 

Then  welcome  back  to  all  thou  would'st  not 

leave, 
To  this  grand  march  of  seasons,  days  and 

hours ; 
The  glory  of  the  morn,  the  glow  of  eve, 

The  beauty  of  the  streams,  and  stars,  and 
flowers ; 

To  eyes  on  which  thine  own  delight  to  rest ; 
To  voices  which  it  is  thy  joy  to  hear ; 


THE   LIFE   THAT    IS.  51 

To  the  kind  toils  that  ever  pleased  thee  best, 
The  willing   tasks  of  love,  that  made  life 
dear. 

Welcome  to  grasp  of  friendly  hands ;  to  prayers 
Offered  where  crowds  in  reverent  worship 
come, 

Or  softly  breathed  amid  the  tender  cares 
And  loving  inmates  of  thy  quiet  home. 

Thou  bring'st  no  tidings  of  the  better  land, 
Even  from  its  verge ;  the  mysteries  opened 

there 

Are  what  the  faithful  heart  may  understand 
In  its  still  depths,  yet  words  may  not  de 
clare. 

And  well  I  deem,  that,  from  the  brighter  side 
Of  life's  dim  border,  some  o'erflowing  rays 

Streamed  from  the  inner  glory,  shall  abide 
Upon  thy  spirit  through  the  coming  days. 


52  POEMS. 

Twice  wert  thou  given  me ;  once  in  thy  fair 

prime, 
Fresh  from  the  fields  of  youth,  when  first 

we  met, 

And  all  the  blossoms  of  that  hopeful  time 
Clustered    and   glowed    where'er   thy   steps 
were  set. 

And  now,  in  thy  ripe  autumn,  once  again 
Given  back  to  fervent  prayers  and  yearnings 

strong, 

From  the  drear  realm  of  sickness  and  of  pain, 
When    we    had   watched,   and   feared,  and 
trembled  long. 

Now  may  we  keep  thee  from  the  balmy  air 
And  radiant  walks  of  heaven  a  little  space, 

Where  He,  who  went  before  thee  to  prepare 
For  His  meek   followers,  shall   assign   thy 
place. 

CASTELLAMARE,  May,  1858. 


SONG. 

"  THESE  PRAIKIES  GLOW  WITH  FLOWERS." 

THESE  prairies  glow  with  flowers, 

These  groves  are  tall  and  fair, 
The  sweet  lay  of  the  mocking  bird 

Kings  in  the  morning  air  ; 
And  yet  I  pine  to  see 

My  native  hill  once  more, 
And  hear  the  sparrow's  friendly  chirp 

Beside  its  cottage  door. 

And  he,  for  whom  I  left 

My  native  hill  and  brook, 
Alas,  I  sometimes  think  I  trace 

A  coldness  in  his  look. 


54:  POEMS. 

If  I  have  lost  his  love 

1  know  my  heart  will  break  ; 
And  haply,  they  I  left  for  him 

Will  sorrow  for  my  sake. 


A    SICK-BED. 

LONG  hast  thou  watched  my  bed, 
And  smoothed  the  pillow  oft 

For  this  poor,  aching  head, 
With  touches  kind  and  soft. 

Oh  !  smooth  it  yet  again, 

As  softly  as  before ; 
Once — only  once — and  then 

I  need  thy  hand  no  more. 

Yet  here  I  may  not  stay, 
Where  I  so  long  have  lain, 


56  POEMS. 

Through  many  a  restless  day, 
And  many  a  night  of  pain. 

But  bear  me  gently  forth 

Beneath  the  open  sky, 
Where,  on  the  pleasant  earth, 

Till  night  the  sunbeams  lie. 

There,  through  the  coming  days, 
I  shall  not  look  to  thee 

My  weary  side  to  raise, 
And  shift  it  tenderly. 

There  sweetly  shall  I  sleep  ; 

Nor  wilt  thou  need  to  bring 
And  put  to  my  hot  lip 

Cool  water  from  the  spring  ; 

Nor  wet  the  kerchief  laid 
Upon  my  burning  brow  ; 

Nor  from  my  eyelids  shade 

The  light  that  wounds  them  now ; 


A    SICK-BED.  57 

Nor  watcli  that  none  shall  tread, 

With  noisy  footstep,  nigh ; 
Nor  listen  by  my  bed, 

To  hear  my  faintest  sigh, 

And  feign  a  look  of  cheer, 
And  words  of  comfort  speak, 

Yet  turn  to  hide  the  tear 
That  gathers  on  thy  cheek. 

Beside  me,  where  I  rest, 

Thy  loving  hands  will  set 
The  flowers  that  please  me  best : 

Moss-rose  and  violet. 

Then  to  the  sleep  I  crave 

Resign  me,  till  I  see 
The  face  of  Him  who  gave 

His  life  for  thee  and  me. 

Yet,  with  the  setting  sun, 

Come,  now  and  then,  at  eve, 
3* 


58  POEMS. 

And  think  of  me  as  one 

For  whom  thou  should' st  not  grieve 

Who,  when  the  kind  release 
From  sin  and  suffering  came, 

Passed  to  the  appointed  peace 
In  murmuring  thy  name. 

Leave  at  my  side  a  space, 

Where  thou  shalt  come,  at  last, 

To  find  a  resting  place, 

When  many  years  are  past. 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    SOWER. 

i. 

THE  maples  redden  in  the  sun  ; 

In  autumn  gold  the  beeches  stand  ; 
Eest,  faithful  plough,  thy  work  is  done 

Upon  the  teeming  land. 
Bordered  with  trees  whose  gay  leaves  fly 
On  every  breath  that  sweeps  the  sky, 
The  fresh  dark  acres  furrowed  lie, 

And  ask  the  sower's  hand. 
Loose  the  tired  steer  and  let  him  go 
To  pasture  where  the  gentians  blow, 
And  we,  who  till  the  grateful  ground, 
Fling  we  the  golden  shower  around. 


60  POEMS. 

II. 

Fling  wide  the  generous  grain  ;  we  fling 
O'er  the  dark  mould  the  green  of  spring. 
For  thick  the  emerald  blades  shall  grow, 
When  first  the  March  winds  melt  the  snow, 
And  to  the  sleeping  flowers,  below, 

The  early  bluebirds  sing. 
Fling  wide  the  grain  ;  we  give  the  fields 

The  ears  that  nod  in  summer's  gale, 
The  shining  stems  that  summer  gilds, 

The  harvest  that  o'erflows  the  vale, 
And  swells,  an  amber  sea,  between 
The  full-leaved  woods,  its  shores  of  green. 
Hark  !  from  the  murmuring  clods  I  hear 
Glad  voices  of  the  coming  year  ; 
The  song  of  him  who  binds  the  grain, 
The  shout  of  those  that  load  the  wain, 
And  from  the  distant  grange  there  comes 

The  clatter  of  the  thresher's  flail, 
And  steadily  the  millstone  hums 

Down  in  the  willowy  vale. 


THE   SONG    OF   THE    SOWER.  61 


III. 

Fling  wide  the  golden  shower  ;  we  trust 
The  strength  of  armies  to  the  dust, 
This  peaceful  lea  may  haply  yield 
Its  harvest  for  the  tented  field. 
Ha  !  feel  ye  not  your  fingers  thrill, 

As  o'er  them,  in  the  yellow  grains, 
Glide  the  warm  drops  of  blood  that  fill 

For  mortal  strife,  the  warrior's  veins  ; 
Such  as,  on  Solferino's  day, 
Slaked  the  brown  sand  and  flowed  away  ; — 
Flowed  till  the  herds,  on  Mincio's  brink, 
Snuffed  the  red  stream  and  feared  to  drink  ; — 
Blood  that  in  deeper  pools  shall  lie, 

On  the  sad  earth,  as  time  grows  gray, 
When  men  by  deadlier  arts  shall  die, 
And  deeper  darkness  blot  the  sky 

Above  the  thundering  fray  ; 
And  realms,  that  hear  the  battle  cry, 
Shall  sicken  with  dismay ; 


62 


POEMS. 


And  chieftains  to  the  war  shall  lead 
Whole  nations,  with  the  tempest's  speed, 

To  perish  in  a  day  ; — 
Till  man,  by  love  and  mercy  taught 
Shall  rue  the  wreck  his  fury  wrought, 

And  lay  the  sword  away. 
Oh  strew,  with  pausing,  shuddering  hand, 
The  seed  upon  the  helpless  land, 
As  if,  at  every  step,  ye  cast 
The  pelting  hail  and  riving  blast. 


IV. 


Nay,  strew,  with  free  and  joyous  sweep, 

The  seed  upon  the  expecting  soil ; 
For  hence  the  plenteous  year  shall  heap 

The  garners  of  the  men  who  toil. 
Strew  the  bright  seed  for  those  who  tear 
The  matted  sward  with  spade  and  share, 
And  those  whose  sounding  axes  gleam 
Beside  the  lonely  forest  stream, 
Till  its  broad  banks  lie  bare ; 


THE    SONG   OF   THE    SOWER.  63 

And  him  who  breaks  the  quarry-ledge, 

With  hammer-blows,  plied  quick  and  strong, 
And  him  who,  with  the  steady  sledge, 

Smites  the  shrill  anvil  all  day  long. 
Sprinkle  the  furrow's  even  trace 

For  those  whose  toiling  hands  uprear 
The  roof-trees  of  our  swarming  race, 

By  grove  and  plain,  by  stream  and  mere  ; 
Who  forth,  from  crowded  city,  lead 

The  lengthening  street,  and  overlay 
Green  orchard  plot  and  grassy  mead 

With  pavement  of  the  murmuring  way. 
Cast,  with  full  hands,  the  harvest  cast, 
For  the  brave  men  that  climb  the  mast, 
When  to  the  billow  and  the  blast 

It  swings  and  stoops,  with  fearful  strain, 
And  bind  the  fluttering  mainsail  fast, 

Till  the  tossed  bark  shall  sit,  again, 

Safe  as  a  seabird  in  the  main. 


64:  POKMS. 


V. 

Fling  wide  the  grain  for  those  who  throw 
The  clanking  shuttle  to  and  fro, 
In  the  long  row  of  humming  rooms, 

And  into  ponderous  masses  wind 
The  web  that,  from  a  thousand  looms, 

Comes  forth  to  clothe  mankind. 
Strew,  with  free  sweep,  the  grain  for  them, 

By  whom  the  busy  thread, 
Along  the  garment's  even  hem 

And  winding  seam  is  led  ; 
A  pallid  sisterhood,  that  keep 

The  lonely  lamp  alight, 
In  strife  with  weariness  and  sleep, 

Beyond  the  middle  night. 
Large  part  be  theirs  in  what  the  year 
Shall  ripen  for  the  reaper  here. 

VI. 

Still,  strew,  with  joyous  hand,  the  wheat 
On  the  soft  mould  beneath  our  feet, 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    SOWEK.  65 

For  even  now  I  seem 
To  hear  a  sound  that  lightly  rings 
From  murmuring  harp  and  viol's  strings, 

As  in  a  summer  dream. 
The  welcome  of  the  wedding  guest, 

The  bridegrooom's  look  of  bashful  pride, 
The  faint  smile  of  the  pallid  bride, 
And  bridemaid's  blush  at  matron's  jest, 
And  dance  and  song  and  generous  dower 
Are  in  the  shining  grains  we  shower. 

VII. 

Scatter  the  wheat  for  shipwrecked  men, 
Who,  hunger-worn,  rejoice  again 

In  the  sweet  safety  of  the  shore, 
And  wanderers,  lost  in  woodlands  drear, 
Whose  pulses  bound  with  joy  to  hear 

The  herd's  light  bell  once  more. 

Freely  the  golden  spray  be  shed 
For  him  whose  heart,  when  night  comes  down 
On  the  close  alleys  of  the  town, 

Is  faint  for  lack  of  bread. 


JO  POEMS. 

In  chill  roof  chambers,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  the  damp  cellar's  stifling  air, 
She  who  now  sees,  in  mute  despair, 

Her  children  pine  for  food, 
Shall  feel  the  dews  of  gladness  start 
To  lids  long  tearless,  and  shall  part 
The  sweet  loaf,  with  a  grateful  heart, 

Among  her  thin,  pale  brood. 
Dear,  kindly  Earth,  whose  breast  we  till ! 
Oh,  for  thy  famished  children,  fill, 

Where'er  the  sower  walks, 
Fill  the  rich  ears  that  shade  the  mould 
With  grain  for  grain,  a  hundredfold, 

To  bend  the  sturdy  stalks. 


vm. 
Strew  silently  the  fruitful  seed, 

As  softly  o'er  the  tilth  ye  tread, 
For  hands  that  delicately  knead 

The  consecrated  bread. 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    SOWER.  67 

The  mystic  loaf  that  crowns  the  board, 
When,  round  the  table  of  their  Lord, 

Within  a  thousand  temples  set, 
In  memory  of  the  bitter  death 
Of  him  who  taught  at  Nazareth, 

His  followers  are  met, 
And  thoughtful  eyes  with  tears  are  wet, 

As  of  the  Holy  One  they  think, 
The  glory  of  whose  rising,  yet 

Makes  bright  the  grave's  mysterious  brink. 

IX. 

Brethren,  the  sower's  task  is  done. 
The  seed  is  in  its  winter  bed. 
Now  let  the  dark  brown  mould  be  spread^ 

To  hide  it  from  the  sun, 
And  leave  it  to  the  kindly  care 
Of  the  still  earth  and  brooding  air. 
As  when  the  mother,  from  her  breast, 
Lays  the  hushed  babe  apart  to  rest, 
And  shades  its  eyes  and  waits  to  see 
How  sweet  its  waking  smile  will  be. 


68  POEMS. 

The  tempest  now  may  smite,  the  sleet 
All  night  on  the  drowned  furrow  beat, 
And  winds  that,  from  the  cloudy  hold, 
Of  winter  breathe  the  bitter  cold, 
Stiffen  to  stone  the  mellow  mould, 

Yet  safe  shall  lie  the  wheat ; 
Till,  out  of  heaven's  unmeasured  blue, 

Shall  walk  again  the  genial  year, 
To  wake  with  warmth  and  nurse  with  dew, 

The  germs  we  lay  to  slumber  here. 


x. 

Oh  blessed  harvest  yet  to  be  ! 

Abide  thou  with  the  love  that  keeps, 
In  its  warm  bosom,  tenderly, 

The  life  which  wakes  and  that  which  sleeps. 
The  love  that  leads  the  willing  spheres 
Along  the  unending  track  of  years, 
And  watches  o'er  the  sparrow's  nest, 
Shall  brood  above  thy  winter  rest, 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    SOWEK.  69 

And  raise  thee  from  the  dust,  to  hold 

Light  whisperings  with  the  winds  of  May, 
And  fill  thy  spikes  with  living  gold, 

From  summer's  yellow  ray, 
Then,  as  thy  garners  give  thee  forth, 

On  what  glad  errands  shalt  thou  go, 
Wherever,  o'er  the  waiting  earth, 

Roads  wind  and  rivers  flow. 
The  ancient  East  shall  welcome  thee 
To  mighty  marts  beyond  the  sea, 
And  they  who  dwell  where  palm  groves  sound 
To  summer  winds  the  whole  year  round, 
Shall  watch,  in  gladness,  from  the  shore, 
The  sails  that  bring  thy  glistening  store. 


THE  NEW  AND  THE  OLD. 

NEW  are  the  leaves  on  the  oaken  spray, 
New  the  blades  of  the  silky  grass  ; 

Flowers,  that  were  buds  but  yesterday, 
Peep  from  the  ground  where'er  I  pass. 

These  gay  idlers,  the  butterflies, 

Broke,  to-day,  from  their  winter  shroud, 

These  soft  airs,  that  winnow  the  skies, 

Blow,  just  born,  from  the  soft,  white  cloud, 

Gushing  fresh  in  the  little  streams 
What  a  prattle  the  waters  make  ! 


THE   NEW    AND   THE    OLD.  71 

Even  the  sun,  with  his  tender  beams, 

Seems  as  young  as  the  flowers  they  wake. 

Children  are  wading,  with  cheerful  cries, 
In  the  shoals  of  the  sparkling  brook, 

Laughing  maidens,  with  soft,  young  eyes, 
"Walk  or  sit  in  the  shady  nook. 

What  am  I  doing,  thus  alone, 

In  the  glory  of  nature  here, 
Silver-haired,  like  a  snow-flake  thrown 

On  the  greens  of  the  springing  year  ? 

Only  for  brows  unploughed  by  care, 
Eyes  that  glisten  with  hope  and  mirth, 

Cheeks  unwrinkled,  and  unblanched  hair, 
Shines  this  holiday  of  the  earth. 

Under  the  grass,  with  the  clammy  clay, 
Lie  in  darkness  the  last  year's  flowers, 


72  POEMS. 

Born  of  a  light  that  has  passed  away, 
Dews  long  dried,  and  forgotten  showers. 

"  Under  the  grass  is  the  fitting  home," 
So  they  whisper,  "  for  such  as  thou, 
When  the  winter  of  life  is  come, 

Chilling  the  blood,  and  frosting  the  brow." 


THE  CLOUD  ON  THE  WAY. 

ff  SEE  before  us,  in  our  journey,  broods  a  mist 
upon  the  ground ; 

Thither  leads  the  path  we  walk  in,  blending 
with  that  gloomy  bound. 

Never  eye  hath  pierced  its  shadows  to  the  mys 
tery  they  screen  ; 

Those  who  once  have  passed  within  it  never 
more  on  earth  are  seen. 

Now  it  seems  to  stoop  beside  us,  now  at  seem 
ing  distance  lowers, 

Leaving  banks  that  tempt  us  onward  bright 
with  summer-green  and  flowers. 
4 


74  POEMS. 

Yet  it  blots  the  way  forever  ;  there  our  journey 

ends  at  last ; 
Into  that  dark  cloud  we  enter,  and  are  gathered 

to  the  past. 
Thou   who,   in    this    flinty  pathway,   leading 

through  a  stranger-land, 
Fassest  down  the  rocky  valley,  walking  with 

rne  hand  in  hand, 
"Which  of  us  shall  be  the  soonest  folded  to  that 

dim  Unknown  ? 
Which  shall  leave  the  other  walking  in  this 

flinty  path  alone  ? 
Even  now  I  see  thee  shudder,  and  thy  cheek  is 

white  with  fear, 
And  thou  clingest  to  my  side  as  comes  that 

darkness  sweeping  near. 
"  Here,"  thou  say'st,  "  the  path  is  rugged,  sown 

with  thorns  that  wound  the  feet ; 
But  the  sheltered  glens  are  lovely,  and  the  riv 
ulet's  song  is  sweet ; 
Roses   breathe   from    tangled  thickets ;    lilies 

bend  from  ledges  brown  ; 


THE   CLOUD    ON   THE   WAY.  75 

Pleasantly  between  the  pelting  showers  the  sun 
shine  gushes  down ; 

Dear  a,re  those  who  walk  beside  us,  they  whose 
looks  and  voices  make 

All  this  rugged  region  cheerful,  till  I  love  it  for 
their  sake. 

Far  be  yet  the  hour  that  takes  me  where  that 
chilly  shadow  lies, 

From  the  things  I  know  and  love  and  from  the 
sight  of  loving  eyes." 

So   thou  murmurest,  fearful  one :  but  see,  we 
tread  a  rougher  way  ; 

Fainter  glow  the  gleams  of  sunshine  that  upon 
the  dark  rocks  play  ; 

Rude  winds  strew  the  faded  flowers  upon  the 
crags  o'er  which  we  pass  ; 

Banks  of  verdure,  when  we  reach  them,  hiss 
with  tufts  of  withered  grass. 

One  by  one  we  miss  the  voices  which  we  loved 

so  well  to  hear  ; 

One  by  one  the  kindly  faces  in  that  shadow  dis 
appear. 


76  POEMS. 

Yet  upon  the  mist  before  us  fix  thine  eyes  with 

closer  view ; 
See,  beneath  its  sullen  skirts,  the  rosy  morning 

glimmers  through. 
One  whose  feet  the  thorns  have  wounded  passed 

that  barrier  and  came  back, 
With  a  glory  on  His  footsteps  lighting  yet  the 

dreary  track. 
Boldly  enter  where  He  entered ;  all  that  seems 

but  darkness  here, 
When  thou  hast  passed  beyond  it,  haply  shall 

be  crystal-clear. 
Viewed  from  that  serener  realm,  the  walks  of 

human  life  may  lie, 
Like  the  page  of  some  familiar  volume,  open  to 

thine  eye ; 
Haply,   from  the   overhanging    shadow,   thou 

may'st  stretch  an  unseen  hand, 
To  support  the  wavering  steps  that  print  with 

blood  the  rugged  land. 
Haply,  leaning  o'er  the  pilgrim,  all  unweeting 

thou  art  near, 


THE    CLOUD   ON   THE   WAY.  77 

Tliou  may'st  whisper  words  of  warning  or  of 

comfort  in  his  ear, 
Till,  beyond  the  border  where  that  brooding 

mystery  bars  the  sight, 
Those  whom  thou  hast  fondly  cherished  stand 

with  thee  in  peace  and  light. 


THE  TIDES. 

THE  moon  is  at  her  full,  and,  riding  high, 
Floods  the  calm  fields  with  light. 

The  airs  that  hover  in  the  summer  sky 
Are  all  asleep  to-night. 

There  comes  no  voice  from  the  great  woodlands 
round 

That  murmured  all  the  day  ; 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  their  boughs,  the  ground 

Is  not  more  still  than  they. 


THE  TIDES.  79 

But  ever  heaves  and  moans  the  restless  Deep  ; 

His  rising  tides  I  hear, 
Afar  I  see  the  glimmering  billows  leap ; 

I  see  them  breaking  near. 

Each  wave  springs  upward,  climbing  toward 
the  fair 

Pure  light  that  sits  on  high — 
Springs  eagerly,  and  faintly  sinks,  to  where 

The  mother  waters  lie. 

Upward  again  it  swells  ;  the  moonbeams  show, 

Again,  its  glimmering  crest ; 
Again  it  feels  the  fatal  weight  below, 

And  sinks,  but  not  to  rest. 

Again  and  yet  again  ;  until  the  Deep 

Eecalls  his  brood  of  waves  ; 
And,  with  a  sullen  moan,  abashed,  they  creep 

Back  to  his  inner  caves. 


80  POEMS. 

Brief  respite  !  they  shall  rush  from  that  recess 

With  noise  and  tumult  soon, 
And  fling  themselves,  with  unavailing  stress, 

Up  toward  the  placid  moon. 

Oh,  restless  Sea,  that,  in  thy  prison  here, 

Dost  struggle  and  complain  ; 
Through  the  slow  centuries  yearning  to  be  near 

To  that  fair  orb  in  vain  ; 

The  glorious  source  of  light   and  heat  must 

warm 

Thy  billows  from  on  high, 
And  change  them  to  the  cloudy  trains  that 

form 
The  curtains  of  the  sky. 

Then  only  may  they  leave  the  waste  of  brine 

In  which  they  welter  here, 
And  rise  above  the  hills  of  earth,  and  shine 

In  a  serener  sphere. 


ITALY. 

YOICES  from  the  mountains  speak ; 

Apennines  to  Alps  reply  ; 
Yale  to  vale  and  peak  to  peak 
Toss  an  old  remembered  cry ; 
Italy 

Shall  be  free ! 

Such  the  mighty  shout  that  fills 
All  the  passes  of  her  hills. 

All  the  old  Italian  lakes 

Quiver  at  that  quickening  word ; 
Como  with  a  thrill  awakes  ; 

Garda  to  her  depths  is  stirred  ; 


82  POEMS. 

Mid  tlie  steeps 

Where  lie  sleeps. 
Dreaming  of  the  elder  years, 
Startled  Thrasymenus  hears. 

Sweeping  Arno,  swelling  Po, 

Murmur  freedom  to  their  meads. 
Tiber  swift  and  Liris  slow 

Send  strange  whispers  from  their  reeds. 
Italy 

Shall  be  free, 

Sing  the  glittering  brooks  that  slide, 
Toward  the  sea,  from  Etna's  side. 

Long  ago  was  Gracchus  slain ; 

Brutus  perished  long  ago  ; 
Yet  the  living  roots  remain 

Whence  the  shoots  of  greatness  grow. 
Yet  again, 
God-like  men, 


ITALY.  83 


Sprung  from  that  heroic  stem, 
Call  the  land  to  rise  with  them. 


They  who  haunt  the  swarming  street, 
They  who  chase  the  mountain  boar, 
Or,  where  cliff  and  billow  meet, 
Prune  the  vine  or  pull  the  oar, 
With  a  stroke 
Break  their  yoke ; 
Slaves  but  y  ester  eve  were  they — 
Freemen  with  the  dawning  day. 

Looking  in  his  children's  eyes, 

While  his  own  with  gladness  flash, 
"  These,"  the  Umbrian  father  cries, 
"  Ne'er  shall  crouch  beneath  the  lash ! 
These  shall  ne'er 
Brook  to  wear 

Chains  whose  cruel  links  are  twined 
Round  the  crushed  and  withering  mind." 


84  POEMS. 

Monarchs !  ye  whose  armies  stand 

Harnessed  for  the  battle-field  ! 
Pause,  and  from  the  lifted  hand 
Drop  the  bolts  of  war  ye  wield. 
Stand  aloof 
While  the  proof 
Of  the  people's  might  is  given  ; 
Leave  their  kings  to  them  and  heaven. 

Stand  aloof,  and  see  the  oppressed 

Chase  the  oppressor,  pale  with  fear, 
As  the  fresh  winds  of  the  west 
Blow  the  misty  valleys  clear. 
Stand  and  see 
Italy 

Cast  the  gyves  she  wears  no  more 
To  the  gulfs  that  steep  her  shore. 


A    DAY   DREAM. 

A  DAT  dream  by  the  dark  blue  deep ; 

Was  it  a  dream,  or  something  more  ? 
I  sat  where  Posilippo's  steep. 

With  its  gray  shelves,  o'erhung  the  shore. 

On  ruined  Eoman  walls  around 
The  poppy  flaunted,  for  'twas  May  ; 

And  at  my  feet,  with  gentle  sound, 
Broke  the  light  billows  of  the  bay. 


>0  POEMS. 

I  sat  and  watched  the  eternal  flow 

Of  those  smooth  billows  toward  the  shore. 

While  quivering  lines  of  light  below, 
Kan  with  them  on  the  ocean  floor. 

Till,  from  the  deep,  there  seemed  to  rise 
White  arms  upon  the  waves  outspread, 

Young  faces,  lit  with  soft  blue  eyes, 
And  smooth,  round  cheeks,  just  touched 
with  red. 

Their  long,  fair  tresses,  tinged  with  gold, 
Lay  floating  on  the  ocean  streams, 

And  such  their  brows  as  bards  behold — 
Love-stricken  bards,  in  morning  dreams. 

Then  moved  their  coral  lips ;  a  strain 
Low,  sweet  and  sorrowful  I  heard, 

As  if  the  murmurs  of  the  main 
Were  shaped  to  syllable  and  word. 


A   DAY   DREAM.  87 

"  The  sight  thou  dimly  dost  behold, 
Oh,  stranger  from  a  distant  sky ! 

Was  often,  in  the  days  of  old, 
Seen  by  the  clear,  believing  eye. 

"  Then  danced  we  on  the  wrinkled  sand, 

Sat  in  cool  caverns  by  the  sea, 
Or  wandered  up  the  bloomy  land, 
To  talk  with  shepherds  on  the  lea. 

"  To  us,  in  storms,  the  seaman  prayed, 
And  where  our  rustic  altars  stood, 
His  little  children  came  and  laid 
The  fairest  flowers  of  field  and  wood, 

"  Oh  woe,  a  long  unending  woe  ! 

For  who  shall  knit  the  ties  again 
That  linked  the  sea-nymphs,  long  ago, 
In  kindly  fellowship  with  men  ? 


88  POEMS. 

"  Earth  rears  her  flowers  for  us  no  more ; 

A  half-remembered  dream  are  we. 
Unseen  we  haunt  the  sunny  shore, 
And  swim,  unmarked,  the  glassy  sea. 

"  And  we  have  none  to  love  or  aid, 

But  wander,  heedless  of  mankind, 
With  shadows  by  the  cloud-rack  made, 
With  moaning  wave  and  sighing  wind. 

"  Yet  sometimes,  as  in  elder  days, 

We  come  before  the  painter's  eye, 
Or  fix  the  sculptor's  eager  gaze, 
With  no  profaner  witness  nigh. 

"  And  then  the  words  of  men  grow  warm 

With  praise  and  wonder,  asking  where 
The  artist  saw  the  perfect  form 
He  copied  forth  in  lines  so  fair." 


A    DAT   DREAM.  89 

As  thus  they  spoke,  with  wavering  sweep 
Floated  the  graceful  forms  away ; 

Dimmer  and  dimmer,  through  the  deep, 
I  saw  the  white  arms  gleam  and  play. 

Fainter  and  fainter,  on  mine  ear. 
Fell  the  soft  accents  of  their  speech, 

Till  I,  at  last,  could  only  hear 

The  waves  run  murmuring  up  the  beach. 


THE  KUINS  OF  ITALICA. 

From  the  Spanish  of  Rioja. 
I. 

FABIUS,  tliis  region,  desolate  and  drear, 

These  solitary  fields,  this  shapeless  mound, 
"Were  once  Italica,  the  far-renowned ; 
For  Scipio,  the  mighty,  planted  here 
His  conquering  colony,  and  now,  overthrown, 
Lie  its  once  dreaded  walls  of  massive  stone. 
Sad  relics,  sad  and  vain, 
Of  those  invincible  men 
Who  held  the  region  then. 
Funereal  memories  alone  remain 

Where  forms  of  high  example  walked  of  yore. 


THE   RUINS    OF   ITALICA.  91 

Here  lay  the  forum,  there  arose  the  fane, 

The  eye  beholds  their  places  and  no  more. 
Their  proud  gymnasium  and  their  sumptuous 

baths, 

Eesolved  to  dust  and  cinders,  strew  the  paths. 
Their  towers,  that  looked  defiance  at  the  sky, 
Fallen  by  their  own  vast  weight,  in  fragments 
lie. 

H. 

This  broken  circus,  where  the  rock  weeds  climb, 
Flaunting  with  yellow  blossoms,  and  defy 
The  gods  to  whom  its  walls  were  piled  so 

high, 

Is  now  a  tragic  theatre,  where  Time 
Acts  his  great  fable,  spreads  a  stage  that  shows 
Past  grandeur's  story  and  its  dreary  close. 
Why,  round  this  desert  pit, 
Shout  not  the  applauding  rows 
Where  the  great  people  sit  ? 
Wild  beasts  are  here,  but  where  the  combatant, 


yz  TOEMS. 

With  his  bare  arms,  the  strong  athleta  where  ? 
All  have  departed  from  this  once  gay  haunt 

Of  noisy  crowds,  and  silence  holds  the  air. 
Yet,  on  this  spot,  Time  gives  us  to  behold 
A  spectacle  as  stern  as  those  of  old. 
As  dreamily  I  gaze,  there  seem  to  rise, 
From  all  the  mighty  ruin,  wailing  cries. 

in. 
The  terrible  in  war,  the  pride  of  Spain, 

Trajan,  his  country's  father,  here  was  born; 
Good,  fortunate,  triumphant,  to  whose  reign 
Submitted  the  far  regions,  where  the  morn 
Hose  from  her   cradle,  and   the   shore   whose 

steeps 

O'erlooked  the  conquered  Gaditanian  deeps. 
Of  mighty  Adrian  here, 
Of  Theodosius,  saint, 
Of  Silius,  Virgil's  peer, 

Were  rocked  the  cradles,  rich  with  gold,  and 
quaint 


THE   RUINS    OF   ITALICA.  93 

With  ivory  carvings  ;  here  were  laurel  boughs 
And   sprays  of  jasmine   gathered   for  their 

brows, 
From    gardens    now    a    marshy,   thorny 

waste. 

"Where  rose  the  palace,  reared  for  Caesar,  yawn 
Foul  rifts  to  which  the   scudding  lizards 

haste. 

Palaces,  gardens,  Csesars,  all  are  gone, 
And  even  the  stones  their  names  were  graven 
on. 

IV. 

Fabius,  if  tears  prevent  thee  not,  survey 
The  long  dismantled  streets,  so  thronged  of 

old, 
The  broken  marbles,  arches  in  decay, 

Proud  statues,  toppled  from  their  place  and 

rolled 

In  dust,  when  Nemesis,  the  avenger,  came, 
And  buried,  in  forgetfulness  profound, 


94  POEMS. 

The  owners  and  their  fame. 

Thus  Troy,  I  deem  must  be, 

"With  many  a  mouldering  mound  ; 
And  thou,  whose  name  alone  remains  to  thee, 
Home,   of   old    gods    and    kings    the    native 

ground ; 

And  thou,  sage  Athens,  built  by  Pallas,  whom 
Just  laws  redeemed  not  from  the  appointed 

doom. 

The  envy  of  earth's  cities  once  wert  thou, — 
A  weary  solitude  and  ashes  now. 
For  fate  and  death  respect  ye  not :  they  strike 
The  mighty  city  and  the  wise  alike. 

v. 

But  why  goes  forth  the  wandering  thought  to 

frame 
New  themes  of  sorrow,  sought  in   distant 

lands  ? 

Enough  the  example  that  before  me  stands ; 
For  here  are  smoke  wreaths  seen,  and  glimmer 
ing  flame, 


THE   KUINS    OF    ITALICA.  95 

And  hoarse  lamentings  on  the  breezes  die  ; 
So  doth  the  mighty  ruin  cast  its  spell 
On  those  who  near  it  dwell. 
And  under  night's  still  sky, 
As  awe-struck  peasants  tell, 
A  melancholy  voice  is  heard  to  cry, 
"  Italica  is  fallen ;  "  the  echoes  then 
Mournfully  shout  "  Italica"  again. 

The  leafy  alleys  of  the  forest  nigh 
Murmur  "  Italica,"  and  all  around, 
A  troop  of  mighty  shadows,  at  the  sound 
Of  that  illustrious  name,  repeat  the  call, 
"  Italiea !  "  from  ruined  tower  and  wall. 


WAITING  BY  THE  GATE. 

BESIDE  a  massive  gateway  built  up  in  years  gone 

by, 

Upon  whose  top  the  clouds  in  eternal  shadow 

lie, 
While  streams  the  evening  sunshine  on  quiet 

wood  and  lea, 
I  stand  and  calmly  wait  till  the  hinges  turn  for 

me. 

The  tree  tops  faintly  rustle  beneath  the  breeze's 

flight, 
A  soft  and  soothing  sound,  yet  it  whispers  of 

the  night ; 


WAITING   BY  THE    GATE.  97 

I  hear  the  woodthrush  piping  one  mellow  des 
cant  more, 

And  scent  the  flowers  that  blow  when  the  heat 
of  day  is  o'er. 

Behold  the  portals  open,  and  o'er  the  threshold, 
now, 

There  steps  a  weary  one  with  a  pale  and  fur 
rowed  brow ; 

His  count  of  years  is  full,  his  allotted  task  is 
wrought ; 

He  passes  to  his  rest  from  a  place  that  needs 
him  not. 

In  sadness  then  I  ponder  how  quickly  fleets  the 

hour 
Of  human  strength  and  action,  man's  courage 

and  his  power. 
I  muse  while  still  the  woodthrush  sings  down 

the  golden  day, 
And  as  I  look  and  listen  the  sadness  wears 

away. 
5 


98  POEMS. 

Again  the  hinges  turn,  and  a  youth,  departing, 

throws 
A  look  of  longing  backward,  and  sorrowfully 

goes ; 
A  blooming  maid,  unbinding  the  roses  from 

her  hair, 
Moves  mournfully  away  from  amidst  the  young 

and  fair. 

Oh  glory  of  our  race  that  so  suddenly  decays ! 
Oh  crimson  flush  of  morning  that  darkens  as 

we  gaze ! 
Oh   breath   of  summer  blossoms   that  on  the 

restless  air 
Scatters  a  moment's   sweetness   and   flies  we 

know  not  where ! 

I  grieve  for  life's  bright  promise,  just  shown 

and  then  withdrawn ; 
But  still  the  sun  shines  round  me :  the  evening 

bird  sings  on, 


WAITING   BY   THE   GATE.  99 

And  I  again  am  soothed,  and,  beside  the  an 
cient  gate, 

In  this  soft  evening  sunlight,  I  calmly  stand 
and  wait. 

Once  more  the  gates  are  opened;  an  infant 
group  go  out, 

The  sweet  smile  quenched  forever,  and  stilled 
the  sprightly  shout. 

Oh  frail,  frail  tree  of  Life,  that  upon  the  green 
sward  strows 

Its  fair  young  buds  unopened,  with  every  wind 
that  blows ! 

So  come  from  every  region,  so  enter,  side  by 

side, 
The  strong  and  faint  of  spirit,  the  meek  and 

men  of  pride. 
Steps   of   earth's  great  and  mighty,   between 

those  pillars  gray, 
And  prints  of  little  feet,  mark  the  dust  along 

the  way. 


100  POEMS. 

And  some  approach  the  threshold  whose  looks 
are  blank  with  fear, 

And  some  whose  temples  brighten  with  joy  in 
drawing  near, 

As  if  they  saw  dear  faces,  and  caught  the  gra 
cious  eye 

Of  Him,  the  Sinless  Teacher,  who  came  for  us 
to  die. 

I  mark  the  joy,  the  terror ;  yet  these,  within  my 

heart, 
Can  neither  wake  the  dread  nor  the  longing  to 

depart ; 
And,  in  the  sunshine  streaming  on  quiet  wood 

and  lea, 
I  stand  and  calmly  wait  till  the  hinges  turn  for 

me. 


NOT    YET. 

country,  marvel  of  the  earth  ! 

Oh  realm  to  sudden  greatness  grown  ! 
The  age  that  gloried  in  thy  birth, 

Shall  it  behold  thee  overthrown  ? 
Shall  traitors  lay  that  greatness  low  ? 
No,  land  of  Hope  and  Blessing,  No  ! 

And  we,  who  wear  thy  glorious  name, 
Shall  we,  like  cravens,  stand  apart, 

When  those  whom  thou  hast  trusted  aim 
The  death  blow  at  thy  generous  heart  ? 

Forth  goes  the  battle  cry,  and  lo  ! 

Hosts  rise  in  harness,  shouting,  No  ! 


102  POEMS. 

And  they  who  founded,  in  our  land, 
The  power  that  rules  from  sea  to  sea, 

Bled  they  in  vain,  or  vainly  planned 
To  leave  their  country  great  and  free  ? 

Their  sleeping  ashes,  from  below, 

Send  up  the  thrilling  murmur,  No ! 

Knit  they  the  gentle  ties  which  long 
These  sister  States  were  proud  to  wear, 

And  forged  the  kindly  links  so  strong 
For  idle  hands  in  sport  to  tear? 

For  scornful  hands  aside  to  throw  ? 

No,  by  our  fathers'  memory,  No  ! 

Our  humming  marts,  our  iron  ways, 
Our  wind-tossed  woods  on  mountain-crest, 

The  hoarse  Atlantic,  with  its  bays, 
The  calm,  broad  Ocean  of  the  "West, 

And  Mississippi's  torrent-flow, 

And  loud  Niagara,  answer.  No  ! 


NOT   YET.  103 

Not  yet  the  hour  is  nigh  when  they 
Who  deep  in  Eld's  dim  twilight  sit, 

Earth's  ancient  kings,  shall  rise  and  say, 
"  Proud  country,  welcome  to  the  pit ! 

So  soon  art  thou,  like  us,  brought  low !  " 

No,  sullen  group  of  shadows,  No  I 

For  now,  behold,  the  arm  that  gave 
The  victory  in  our  fathers  day, 

Strong,  as  of  old,  to  guard  and  save — 
That  mighty  arm  which  none  can  stay — 

On  clouds  above  and  fields  below, 

Writes,  in  men's  sight,  the  answer,  No ! 

July,  1861. 


OUE  COUNTKY'S  CALL. 

LAY  down  the  axe  ;  fling  by  the  spade ; 

Leave  in  its  track  the  toiling  plough  ; 
The  rifle  and  the  bayonet  blade 

For  arms  like  yours  were  fitter  now  ; 
And  let  the  hands  that  ply  the  pen 

Quit  the  light  task,  and  learn  to  wield 
The  horseman's  crooked  brand,  and  rein 

The  charger  on  the  battle  field. 

Our  country  calls ;  away !  away ! 

To  where  the  blood-stream  blots  the  green. 
Strike  to  defend  the  gentlest  sway 

That  Time1  in  all  his  course  has  seen. 


105 


See,  from  a  thousand  coverts — see, 

Spring  the  armed  foes  that  haunt  her  track ; 

They  rush  to  smite  her  down,  and  we 
Must  beat  the  banded  traitors  back. 

Ho  !  sturdy  as  the  oaks  ye  cleave, 

And  moved  as  soon  to  fear  and  night, 
Men  of  the  glade  and  forest !  leave 

Your  woodcraft  for  the  field  of  fight. 
The  arms  that  wield  the  axe  must  pour 

An  iron  tempest  on  the  foe  ; 
His  serried  ranks  shall  reel  before 

The  arm  that  lays  the  panther  low. 

And  ye,  who  breast  the  mountain  storm 
By  grassy  steep  or  highland  lake, 

Come,  for  the  land  ye  love,  to  form 
A  bulwark  that  no  foe  can  break. 

Stand,  like  your  own  gray  cliffs  that  mock 
The  whirlwind,  stand  in  her  defence ; 

The  blast  as  soon  shall  move  the  rock 

As  rushing  squadrons  bear  ye  thence. 
5* 


106  POEMS. 

And  ye,  whose  homes  are  by  her  grand 

Swift  rivers,  rising  far  away, 
Come  from  the  depth  of  her  green  land, 

As  mighty  in  your  march  as  they  ; 
As  terrible  as  when  the  rains 

Have  swelled  them  over  bank  and  bourne, 
With  sudden  floods  to  drown  the  plains 

And  sweep  along  the  woods  up  torn. 

And  ye,  who  throng,  beside  the  deep, 

Her  ports  and  harnlets  of  the  strand, 
In  number  like  the  waves  that  leap 

On  his  long  murmuring  marge  of  sand, 
Come,  like  that  deep,  when,  o'er  his  brim, 

He  rises,  all  his  floods  to  pour, 
And  flings  the  proudest  barks  that  swim, 

A  helpless  wreck,  against  his  shore. 

Few,  few  were  they  whose  swords  of  old 
Won  the  fair  land  in  which  we  dwell ; 

But  we  are  many,  r/e  who  hold 
The  grim  resolve  to  guard  it  w^ell, 


OUR  COUNTRY'S  CALL.  107 

Strike,  for  that  broad  and  goodly  land, 
Blow  after  blow,  till  men  shall  see 

That  Might  and  Right  move  hand  in  hand, 
And  glorious  must  their  triumph  be. 

September,  1861. 


THE  CONSTELLATIONS. 

OH,    Constellations  of  the  early  night 
That  sparkled  brighter  as  the  twilight  died, 
And  made  the  darkness  glorious  !     I  have  seen 
Your  rays  grow  dim  upon  the  horizon's  edge, 
And  sink  behind  the  mountains.     I  have  seen 
The  great  Orion,  with  his  jewelled  belt, 
That  large-limbed  warrior  of  the  skies,  go  down 
Into  the  gloom.     Beside  him  sank  a  crowd 
Of  shining  ones.     I  look  in  vain  to  find 
The  group  of  sister-stars,  which  mothers  love 
To   show  their  wondering  babes,  the  gentle 
Seven. 


THE    CONSTELLATIONS.  109 

Along  the  desert  space  mine  eyes  in  vain 
Seek  the  resplendent  cressets  which  the  Twins 
Uplifted  in  their  ever-youthful  hands. 
The  streaming  tresses  of  the  Egyptian  Queen 
Spangle  the  heavens  no  more.      The  Virgin 

trails 
No  more  her  glittering  garments  through  the 

blue. 

Gone  !  all  are  gone  !  and  the  forsaken  Night, 
"With  all  her  winds,  in  all  her  dreary  wastes, 
Sighs  that  they  shine  upon  her  face  no  more. 

"Now  only  here  and  there  a  little  star 
Looks  forth  alone.     Ah  me !  I  know  them  not, 
Those  dim  successors  of  the  numberless  host 
That  filled  the  heavenly  fields,  and  flung  to 

earth 
Their  quivering  fires.     And   now  the  middle 

watch 

Betwixt  the  eve  and  morn  is  past,  and  still 
The  darkness  gains  upon  the  sky,  and  still 
It  closes  round  my  way.  Shall,  then,  the  night, 


110  POEMS. 

Grow  starless  in  her  later  hours  ?     Have  these 
No  train  of  flaming  watchers,  that  shall  mark 
Their  coming  and  farewell  ?    Oh  Sons  of  Light ! 
Have  ye  then  left  me  ere  the  dawn  of  day 
To  grope  along  my  journey  sad  and  faint  ? 
Thus  I  complained,  and  from  the  darkness 

round 

A  voice  replied — was  it  indeed  a  voice, 
Or  seeming  accents  of  a  waking  dream 
Heard  by  the  inner  ear  ?     But  thus  it  said  : 
Oh,  Traveller  of  the  Night !  thine  eyes  are  dim 
With  watching ;  and  the  mists,  that  chill  the 

vale 
Down  which  thy  feet  are  passing,  hide  from 

view 

The  ever-burning  stars.     It  is  thy  sight 
That  is  so  dark,  and  not  the  heavens.     Thine 

eyes, 

Were  they  but  clear,  would  see  a  fiery  host 
Above  thee  ;  Hercules,  with  flashing  mace, 
The  Lyre  with  silver  chords,  the  Swan  uppoised 


THE    CONSTELLATIONS.  Ill 

On  gleaming  wings,  the  Dolphin  gliding  on 
With  glistening  scales,  and  that  poetic  steed, 
With  beamy  mane,  whose  hoof  struck  out  from 

earth 

The  fount  of  Hippocrene,  and  many  more, 
Fair  clustered  splendors,  with  whose  rays  the 

Night 

Shall  close  her  march  in  glory,  ere  she  yield, 
To  the  young  Day,  the  great  earth  steeped  in 

dew. 

So  spake  the  monitor,  and  I  perceived 
How  vain  were  my  repinings,  and  my  thought 
Went  backward  to  the  vanished  years  and  all 
The  good  and  great  who  came  and  passed  with 

them, 

And  knew  that  ever  would  the  years  to  come 
Bring  with  them,  in  their  course,  the  good  and 

great, 
Lights  of  the  world,  though,  to  iny  clouded 

sight, 
Their  rays  might  seem  but  dim,  or  reach  me 

not. 


THE  TP1IED  OF  NOVEMBER,  1861. 

SOFTLY  breathes  the  westwind  beside  the  ruddy 

forest, 
Taking  leaf  by  leaf  from  the  branches  where 

he  flies. 
Sweetly  streams  the  sunshine,  this  third  day  of 

November, 

Through  the  golden  haze  of  the  quiet  autumn 
skies. 

Tenderly   the    season    has   spared   the  grassy 

meadows, 

Spared  the  petted  flowers  that  the  old  world 
gave  the  new, 


THE  THIKD  OF  NOVEMBER,  1861.     113 

Spared  the  autumn  rose  and  the  garden's  group 

of  pansies, 
Late-blown  dandelions  and  periwinkles  blue. 

On  my  cornice  linger  the  ripe  black  grapes  un- 

gathered ; 
Children  fill  the  groves  with  the  echoes  of 

their  glee, 
Gathering  tawny  chestnuts,  and  shouting  when 

beside  them 

Drops  the  heavy  fruit  of  the  tall  black-wal 
nut  tree. 

Glorious  are  the  woods  in  their  latest  gold  and 

crimson, 

Yet  our  full-leaved  willows  are  in  their  fresh 
est  green. 

Such  a  kindly  autumn,  so  mercifully  dealing 
With  the  growths  of  summer,  1  never  yet 
have  seen. 


114  POEMS. 

Like  this  kindly  season  may  life's  decline  come 

o'er  me ; 
Past  is  manhood's  summer,  the  frosty  months 

are  here ; 
Yet  be  genial  airs  and  a  pleasant  sunshine  left 

me, 

Leaf,  and  fruit,  and  blossom,  to  mark  the 
closing  year. 

Dreary  is  the  time  when  the  flowers  of  earth 

are  withered ; 
Dreary  is  the  time  when  the  woodland  leaves 

are  cast, 
When,  upon   the  hillside,   all  hardened    into 

iron, 

Howling,   like    a    wolf,   flies    the    famished 
northern  blast. 

Dreary  are  the  years  when  the  eye  can  look  no 

longer 

With  delight  on  nature,  or  hope  on  human 
kind  ; 


THE  THIRD  OF  NOVEMBER,  1861.      115 

Oh  may  those  that  whiten  my  temples,  as  they 

pass  me, 

Leave  the    heart  unfrozen,   and  spare   the 
cheerful  mind. 


THE  MOTHEE'S  HYMN. 


LORD,  who  ordainest  for  mankind 
Benignant  toils  and  tender  cares ! 

We  thank  thee  for  the  ties  that  bind 
The  mother  to  the  child  she  bears. 

We  thank  thee  for  the  hopes  that  rise, 
Within  her  heart,  as,  day  by  day, 

The  dawning  soul,  from  those  young  eyes, 
Looks,  with  a  clearer,  steadier  ray. 

And  grateful  for  the  blessing  given 
With  that  dear  infant  on  her  knee, 

She  trains  the  eye  to  look  to  heaven, 
The  voice  to  lisp  a  prayer  to  thee. 


THE  MOTHER'S  HYMN.  117 

Such  thanks  the  blessed  Mary  gave, 
When,  from  her  lap,  the  Holy  Child 

Sent  from  on  high  to  seek  and  save 

The  lost  of  earth,  looked  up  and  smiled. 

All-Gracious  !  grant,  to  those  who  bear 
A  mother's  charge,  the  strength  and  light 

To  lead  the  steps  that  own  their  care 
In  ways  of  Love,  and  Truth,  and  Eight. 


SELLA. 

HEAR  now  a  legend  of  the  days  of  old — 

The  days  when  there  were  goodly  marvels  yet, 

When  man  to   man  gave  willing  faith,  and 

loved 
A  tale  the  better  that  'twas  wild  and  strange. 

Beside  a  pleasant  dwelling  ran  a  brook 
Scudding  along  a  narrow  channel,  paved 
"With  green  and  yellow  pebbles;  yet  full  clear 
Its  waters  were,  and  colorless  and  cool, 
As  fresh  from  granite  rocks.     A  maiden  oft 
Stood  at  the  open  window,  leaning  out, 
And  listening  to  the  sound  the  water  made, 


SELLA.  119 

A.  sweet,  eternal  murmur,  still  tlie  same, 
And  not  the  same  ;  and  oft,  as  spring  came  on, 
She  gathered  violets  from  its  fresh  moist  bank, 
To  place  within  her  bower,  and  when  the  herbs 
Of  summer  drooped  beneath  the  midday  sun, 
She  sat  within  the  shade  of  a  great  rock, 
Dreamily  listening  to  the  streamlet's  song. 
Ripe  were  the  maiden's  years ;  her  stature 

showed 

Womanly  beauty,  and  her  clear,  calm  eye 
Was  bright  with  venturous  spirit,  yet  her  face 
Was  passionless,  like  those  by  sculptor  graved 
For  niches  in  a  temple.     Lovers  oft 
Had  wooed  her,  but  she  only  laughed  at  love, 
And  wondered  at  the  silly  things  they  said. 
'Twas  her  delight  to  wander  where  wild  vines 
O'erhang  the  river's  brim,  to  climb  the  path 
Of  woodland  streamlet  to  its  mountain  springs, 
To  sit  by  gleaming  wells  and  mark  below ' 
The  image  of  the  rushes  on  its  edge, 
And,  deep  beyond,  the  trailing  clouds  that  slid 


120  POEMS. 

Across  the  fair  blue  space.     ISTo  little  fount 
Stole  forth,  from  hanging  rock,  or  in  the  side 
Of  hollow  dell,  or  under  roots  of  oak, 
No  rill  came  trickling,  with  a  stripe  of  green, 
Down  the  bare  hill,  that  to  this  maiden's  eyes 
"Was  not  familiar.     Often  did  the  banks 
Of  river  or  of  sylvan  lakelet  hear 
The  dip  of  oars  with  which  the  maiden  rowed 
Her  shallop,  pushing  ever  from  the  prow 
A  crowd  of  long,  light  ripples  toward  the  shore. 
Two   brothers   had   the  maiden,   and   she 

thought, 

Within  herself :  "  I  would  I  were  like  them  ; 
For  then  I  might  go  forth  alone,  to  trace 
The  mighty  rivers  downward  to  the  sea, 
And  upward  to  the  brooks  that,  through  the 

year, 

Prattle  to  the  cool  valleys.     I  would  know 
What   races   drink    their  waters ;    how   their 

chiefs 
Bear  rule,  and  how  men  worship  there,  and  how 


SELLA.  121 

They  build,  and  to  what  quaint  device  they 

frame, 

Where  sea  and  river  meet,  their  stately  ships ; 
What  flowers  are  in  their  gardens,  and  what 

trees 

Bear  fruit  within  their  orchards ;  in  what  garb 
Their  bowmen  meet  on  holidays,  and  how 
Their  maidens  bind  the  waist  and  braid  the 

hair. 

Here,  on  these  hills,  my  father's  house  o'erlooks 
Broad  pastures  grazed  by  flocks  and  herds,  but 

there- 

I  hear  they  sprinkle  the  great  plains  with  corn 
And  watch   its   springing  up,  and  when  the 

green 
Is  changed  to  gold,  they  cut  the  stems  and 

bring 

The  harvest  in,  and  give  the  nations  bread. 
And  there  they  hew  the  quarry  into  shafts, 
And  pile  up  glorious  temples  from  the  rock, 
And  chisel  the  rude  stones  to  shapes  of  men. 
6 


122  POEMS. 

All  this  I  pine  to  see,  and  would  have  seen, 
But  that  I  am  a  woman,  long  ago." 

Thus  in  her  wanderings   did  the  maiden 

dream, 

Until,  at  length,  one  morn  in  early  spring, 
"When  all  the  glistening  fields  lay  white  with 

frost, 

She  came  half  breathless  where  her  mother  sat : 
"  See,  mother  dear,"  she  said,  "  what  I  have 

found, 

Upon  our  rivulet's  bank  ;  two  slippers,  white 
As  the  mid-winter  snow,  and  spangled  o'er 
"With  twinkling  points,  like  stars,  and  on  the 

edge 

My  name  is  wrought  in  silver  ;  read,  I  pray, 
Sella,  the  name  thy  mother,  now  in  heaven, 
Gave  at  my  birth ;  and  sure,  they  fit  my  feet !  " 
"  A  dainty  pair,"  the  prudent  matron  said, 
"  But  thine  they  are  not.    We  must  lay  them  by 
For  those  whose  careless  hands  have  left  them 

here ; 


SELLA.  123 

Or  haply  they  were  placed  beside  the  brook 
To  be  a  snare.     I  cannot  see  thy  name 
Upon  the  border, — only  characters 
Of  mystic  look  and  dim  are  there,  like  signs 
Of  some  strange  art ;  nay,  daughter,  wear  them 

not." 

Then  Sella  hung  the  slippers  in  the  porch 
Of  that  broad  rustic  lodge,  and  all  who  passed, 
Admired  their  fair  contexture,  but  none  knew 
Who  left  them  by  the  brook    And  now,  at 

length, 
May,  with  her  flowers  and  singing  birds,  had 

gone, 
And  on  bright  streams  and  into  deep  wells 

shone 

The  high,  mid-summer  sun.     One  day,  at  noon, 
Sella  was  missed  from  the  accustomed  meal. 
They  sought  her  in  her  favorite  haunts,  they 

looked 

By  the  great  rock,  and  far  along  the  stream, 
And  shouted  in  the  sounding  woods  her  name. 


POEMS. 

Night  came,  and  forth,  the  sorrowing  household 

went 

With  torches  over  the  wide  pasture  grounds 
To  pool  and  thicket,  marsh  and  briery  dell, 
And  solitary  valley  far  away. 
The  morning  came,  and  Sella  was  not  found. 
The  stm  climbed  high ;  they  sought  her  still ; 

the  noon, 

The  hot  and  silent  noon,  heard  Bella's  name, 
Uttered  with  a  despairing  cry,  to  wastes 
O'er  which  the  eagle  hovered.     As  the  sun 
Stooped  toward  the  amber  west  to  bring  the 

close 

Of  that  sad  second  day,  and,  with  red  eyes, 
The  mother  sat  within  her  home  alone, 
Sella  was  at  her  side.     A  shriek  of  joy 
Broke  the  sad  silence ;  glad,  warm  tears  were 

shed, 

And  words  of  gladness  uttered.  "  Oh,  forgive," 
The  maiden  said,  "  that  I  could  e'er  forget 
Thy  wishes  for  a  moment.     I  just  tried 


BELLA.  125 

The  slippers  on,  amazed  to  see  them  shaped 
So  fairly  to  my  feet,  when,  all  at  once, 
I  felt  my  steps  upborne  and  hurried  on 
Almost  as  if  with  wings.     A  strange  delight, 
Blent  with  a  thrill  of  fear,  o'ermastered  me, 
And,  ere  I  knew,  my  plashing  steps  were  set 
Within  the  rivulet's  pebbly  bed,  and  I 
Was  rushing  down  the  current.     By  my  side 
Tripped  one  as  beautiful  as  ever  looked 
From  white  clouds  in  a  dream  ;  and,  as  we  ran, 
She   talked  with  musical   voice   and  sweetly 

laughed ; 

Gayly  we  leaped  the  crag  and  swam  the  pool, 
And   swept  with  dimpling  eddies  round  the 

rock, 

And  glided  between  shady  meadow  banks. 
The  streamlet,  broadening  as  we  went,  became 
A  swelling  river,  and  we  shot  along 
By  stately  towns,  and  under  leaning  masts 
Of  gallant  barks,  nor  lingered  by  the  shore 
Of  blooming  gardens  ;  onward,  onward  still, 


126  POEMS. 

The  same  strong  impulse  bore  me  till,  at  last, 
We  entered  the  great  deep,  and  passed  below 
His  billows,  into  boundless  spaces,  lit 
"With  a  green  sunshine.     Here  were  mighty 

groves 

Far  down  the  ocean  valleys,  and  between 
Lay  what   might   seem   fair  meadows,   softly 

tinged 

With  orange  and  with  crimson.     Here  arose 
Tall  stems,  that,  rooted  in  the  depths  below, 
Swung  idly  with  the  motions  of  the  sea ; 
And  here  were  shrubberies  in  whose  mazy 

screen 
The  creatures  of  the  deep  made  haunt.     My 

friend 

Named  the  strange  growths,  the  pretty  coral 
line, 
The  dulse  with  crimson  leaves,  and  streaming 

far, 

Sea-thong  and  sea-lace.    Here  the  tangle  spread 
Its  broad,  thick  fronds,  with  pleasant  bowers 

beneath. 


SELLA.  127 

And  oft  we  trod  a  waste  of  pearly  sands. 
Spotted  with  rosy  shells,  and  thence  looked  in 
At  caverns  of  the  sea  whose  rock-roofed  halls 
Lay  in  blue  twilight.     As  we  moved  along, 
The  dwellers  of  the  deep,  in  mighty  herds, 
Passed  by  us,  reverently  they  passed  us  by, 
Long  trains  of  dolphins  rolling  through   the 

brine, 

Huge  whales,  that  drew  the  waters  after  them, 
A  torrent  stream,  and  hideous  hammer-sharks, 
Chasing  their  prey  ;  I  shuddered  as  they  came  ; 
Gently  they  turned  aside  and  gave  us  room." 
Hereat  broke  in  the  mother,  "  Bella,  dear, 
This  is  a  dream,  the  idlest,  vainest  dream." 
"  Nay,  mother,  nay ;  behold  this  sea-green 

scarf, 

Woven  of  such  threads  as  never  human  hand 
Twined  from  the  distaff.    She  who  led  my  way 
Through  the  great  waters,  bade  me  wear  it 

home, 
A  token  that  my  tale  is  true.    <  And  keep,' 


128  POEMS. 

She  said,  'the  slippers  thou  hast  found,  for 

thou, 

When  shod  with  them,  shalt  be  like  one  of  us, 
With  power  to  walk  at  will  the  ocean  floor, 
Among  its  monstrous  creatures  unafraid, 
And  feel  no  longing  for  the  air  of  heaven 
To  fill  thy  lungs,  and  send  the  warm,  red  blood 
Along  thy  veins.    But  thou  shalt  pass  the  hours 
In  dances  with  the  sea-nymphs,  or  go  forth, 
To  look  into  the  mysteries  of  the  abyss 
Where  never    plummet  reached.     And  thou 

shalt  sleep 

Thy  weariness  away  on  downy  banks 
Of  sea-moss,  where  the  pulses  of  the  tide 
Shall  gently  lift  thy  hair,  or  thou  shalt  float 
On  the  soft  currents  that  go  forth  and  wind 
From  isle  to  isle,  and  wander  through  the  sea.' 

"  So  spake  my  fellow-voyager,  her  words 
Sounding  like  wavelets  on  a  summer  shore, 
And  then  we  stopped  beside  a  hanging  rock 
With  a  smooth  beach  of  white  sands  at  its  foot, 


SELLA.  129 

Where  three  fair  creatures  like  herself  were  set 
At  their  sea-banquet,  crisp  and  juicy  stalks, 
Culled  from  the   ocean's  meadows,    and    the 

sweet 

Midrib  of  pleasant  leaves,  and  golden  fruits, 
Dropped  from  the  trees  that  edge  the  southern 

isles, 
And  gathered   on  the   waves.      Kindly   they 

prayed 

That  I  would  share  their  meal,  and  I  partook 
With  eager  appetite,  for  long  had  been 
My  journey,  and  I  left  the  spot  refreshed. 

"  And  then  we  wandered  off  amid  the  groves 
Of  coral  loftier  than  the  growths  of  earth  ; 
The  mightiest  cedar  lifts  no  trunk  like  theirs, 
So  huge,  so  high,  toward  heaven,  nor  over 
hangs 

Alleys  and  bowers  so  dim.   We  moved  between 
Pinnacles  of  black  rock,  which,  from  beneath, 
Molten  by  inner  fires,  so  said  my  guide, 
Gushed  long  ago  into  the  hissing  brine, 
6* 


130  POEMS. 

That  quenched  and  hardened  them,  and  now 

they  stand 

Motionless  in  the  currents  of  the  sea 
That  part  and  flow  around  them.    As  we  went, 
"We  looked  into  the  hollows  of  the  abyss, 
To  which  the  never-resting  waters  sweep 
The  skeletons  of  sharks,  the  long  white  spines 
Of  narwhale  and  of  dolphin,  bones  of  men 
Shipwrecked,   and  mighty   ribs   of  foundered 

barks. 
Down  the  blue  pits  we  looked,  and  hastened 

on. 

"  But  beautiful  the  fountains  of  the  sea 
Sprang  upward  from  its  bed  ;  the  silvery  jets 
Shot  branching  far  into  the  azure  brine, 
And  where  they  mingled  with  it,  the  great 

deep 
Quivered  and  shook,  as  shakes  the  glimmering 

air 

Above  a  furnace.     So  we  wandered  through 
The  mighty  world  of  waters,  till,  at  length 


SELLA.  131 

I  wearied  of  its  wonders,  and  my  heart 
Began  to  yearn  for  my  dear  mountain  home. 
I  prayed  my  gentle  guide  to  lead  me  back 
To  the  upper  air.     c  A  glorious  realm,'  I  said, 
6  Is  this  thou  openest  to  me  ;  but  I  stray 
Bewildered  in  its  vastness ;  these  strange  sights 
And  this  strange  light  oppress  me.    I  must  see 
The  faces  that  I  love,  or  I  shall  die.' 

"  She  took  my  hand,  and,  darting  through 

the  waves, 
Brought  me  to  where  the  stream,  by  which  we 

came, 

Rushed  into  the  main  ocean.     Then  began 
A  slower  journey  upward.     Wearily 
We    breasted    the    strong    current,    climbing 

through 

The  rapids  tossing  high  their  foam.     The  night 
Came  down,  and,  in  the  clear  depth  of  a  pool, 
Edged  with  o'erhaiiging  rock,  we  took  our  rest 
Till  morning ;  and  I  slept,  and  dreamed  of  home 
And    thee.     A    pleasant    sight  the  morning 

showed ; 


132  POEMS. 

The  green  fields  of  this  upper  world,  the  herds 
That  grazed  the  bank,  the  light  on  the  red 

clouds, 

The  trees,  with  all  their  host  of  trembling  leaves, 
Lifting  and  lowering  to  the  restless  wind 
Their  branches.     As  I  woke  I  saw  them  all 
From  the  clear  stream ;  yet  strangely  was  my 

heart 

Parted  between  the  watery  world  and  this, 
And  as  we  journeyed  upward,  oft  I  thought 
Of  marvels  I  had  seen,  and  stopped  and  turned, 
And  lingered,  till  I  thought  of  thee  again  ; 
And  then  again  I  turned  and  clambered  up 
The  rivulet's  murmuring  path,  until  we  came 
Beside  this  cottage  door.     There  tenderly 
My  fair  conductor  kissed  me,  and  I  saw 
Her  face  no  more.     I  took  the  slippers  off. 
Oh  !  with  what  deep  delight  my  lungs  drew  in 
The  air  of  heaven  again,  and  with  what  joy 
I  felt  my  blood  bound  with  its  former  glow  ; 
And  now  I  never  leave  thy  side  again." 


SELLA.  133 

So  spoke  the  maiden  Sella,  with  large  tears 
Standing  in  her  mild  eyes,  and  in  the  porch 
Replaced    the    slippers.     Autumn   came    and 

went; 

The  winter  passed  ;  another  summer  warmed 
The  quiet  pools  ;  another  autumn  tinged 
The  grape  with  red,  yet   while  it  hung  un- 

plucked. 

The  mother  ere  her  time  was  carried  forth 
To  sleep  among  the  solitary  hills. 

A  long  still  sadness  settled  on  that  home 
Among  the  mountains.     The  stern  father  there 
Wept  with  his  children,  and  grew  soft  of  heart. 
And  Sella,  and  the  brothers  twain,  and  one 
Younger  than  they,  a  sister  fair  and  shy, 
Strewed  the  new  grave  with  flowers,  and  round 

it  set 

Shrubs  that  all  winter  held  their  lively  green. 
Time  passed  ;  the  grief  with  which  their  hearts 

were  wrung 
"Waned  to  a  gentle  sorrow.     Sella,  now, 


134  POEMS. 

Was  often  absent  from  the  patriarch's  board ; 
The  slippers  hung  no  longer  in  the  porch  ; 
And  sometimes  after  summer  nights  her  couch 
Was  found  unpressed  at  dawn,  and  well  they 

knew 
That  she  was  wandering  with  the  race  who 

make 

Their  dwelling  in  the  waters.     Oft  her  looks 
Fixed  on  blank  space,  and  oft  the  ill-suited 

word 

Told  that  her  thoughts  were  far  away.     In  vain 
Her  brothers  reasoned  with  her  tenderly. 
"  Oh  leave  not  thus  thy  kindred ; "    so  they 

prayed ; 

"  Dear  Sella,  now  that  she  who  gave  us  birth 
Is  in  her  grave,  oh  go  not  hence,  to  seek 
Companions  in  that  strange  cold  realm  below, 
For  which  God  made  not  us  nor  thee,  but  stay 
To  be  the  grace  arid  glory  of  our  home." 
She  looked  at  them  with  those  mild  eyes  and 

wept, 


SELLA,  135 

But  .said  no  word  in  answer,  nor  refrained 
From  those  mysterious  wanderings  that  filled 
Their  loving  hearts  with  a  perpetual  pain. 

And  now  the  ^younger  sister,  fair  and  shy, 
Had  grown  to  early  womanhood,  and  one 
"Who  loved  her  well  had  wooed  her  for  his 

bride, 
And  she  had  named  the  wedding  day.     The 

herd 

Had  given  its  fatlings  for  the  marriage  feast ; 
The  roadside  garden  and  the  secret  glen 
Were  rifled  of  their  sweetest  flowers  to  twine 
The  door  posts,  and  to  lie  among  the  locks 
Of  maids,  the  wedding  guests,  and  from  the 

boughs 

Of  mountain  orchards  had  the  fairest Jruit 
Been  plucked  to  glisten  in  the  canisters. 

Then,  trooping  over  hill  and  valley,  came 
Matron   and  maid,   grave  men    and  smiling 

youths, 
Like    swallows    gathering  for  their    autumn 

flight. 


136  POEMS. 

In  costumes  of  that  simpler  age  they  came, 
That  gave  the  limbs  large  play,  and  wrapt  the 

form 

In  easy  folds,  yet  bright  with  glowing  hues 
As  suited  holidays.     All  hastened  on 
To  that  glad  bridal.     There  already  stood 
The  priest  prepared  to  say  the  spousal  rite, 
And  there  the  harpers  in  due  order  sat, 
And  there  the  singers.     Sella,  midst  them  all, 
Moved  strangely  and  serenely  beautiful, 
With  clear  blue  eyes,  fair  locks,  and  brow  and 

cheek 

Colorless  as  the  lily  of  the  lakes, 
Yet  moulded  to  such  shape  as  artists  give 
To  beings  of  immortal  youth.     Her  hands 
Had  decked  her  sister  for  the  bridal  hour 
With  chosen  flowers,  and  lawn  whose  delicate 

threads 
Yied  with  the   spider's   spinning.     There  she 

stood 
With  such  a  gentle  pleasure  in  her  looks 


SELLA.  137 

As  might  beseem  a  river-nymph's  soft  eyes 
Gracing  a  bridal  of  the  race  whose  flocks 
Were  pastured  on  the  borders  of  her  stream. 
She  smiled,  but  from  that  calm  sweet  face 

the  smile 

Was  soon  to  pass  away.     That  very  morn 
The  elder  of  the  brothers,  as  he  stood 
Upon  the  hillside,  had  beheld  the  maid, 
Emerging  from  the  channel  of  the  brook, 
With  three  fresh  water  lilies  in  her  hand, 
Wring  dry  her  dripping  locks,  and  in  a  cleft 
Of  hanging  rock,  beside  a  screen  of  boughs, 
Bestow  the  spangled  slippers.     None  before 
Had  known  where  Sella  hid  them.     Then  she 

laid 
The  light  brown  tresses  smooth,  and  in  them 

twined 

The  lily  buds,  and  hastily  drew  forth 
And  threw  across  her  shoulders  a  light  robe 
Wrought  for  the  bridal,  and  with  bounding 

steps 


138  POEMS. 

Ran  toward  the  lodge.     The  youth  beheld  and 

marked 
The  spot  and  slowly  followed  from  afar. 

Now  had  the  marriage  rite  been  said ;  the 

bride 

Stood  in  the  blush  that  from  her  burning  cheek 
Glowed  down  the  alabaster  neck,  as  morn 
Crimsons  the  pearly  heaven  halfway  to  the 

west. 
At  once  the  harpers  struck  their  chords ;   a 

gush 

Of  music  broke  upon  the  air ;  the  youths 
All  started  to  the  dance.     Among  them  moved 
The  queenly  Sella  with  a  grace  that  seemed 
Caught  from  the  swaying  of  the  summer  sea. 
The  young  drew  forth  the  elders  to  the  dance, 
Who  joined  it  half  abashed,  but  when  they  felt 
The  joyous  music  tingling  in  their  veins, 
They  called  for  quaint  old  measures,  which  they 

trod 
As  gayly  as  in  youth,  and  far  abroad 


BELLA.  139 

Came    through  the    open   windows    cheerful 

shouts 
And  bursts  of  laughter.     They  who  heard  the 

sound 

Upon  the  mountain  footpaths  paused  and  said, 
"  A  merry  wedding."     Lovers  stole  away 
That  sunny  afternoon  to  bowers  that  edged 
The  garden  walks,  and  what  was  whispered 

there 
The  lovers  of  these  later  times  can  guess. 

Meanwhile  the  brothers,  when  the  merry 

din 

Was  loudest,  stole  to  where  the  slippers  lay, 
And  took  them  thence,  and  followed  down  the 

brook 

To  where  a  little  rapid  rushed  between 
Its  borders  of  smooth  rock,  and  dropped  them 

in. 

The  rivulet,  as  they  touched  its  face,  flung  up 
Its  small  bright  waves  like  hands,  and  seemed 

to  take 
The  prize  with  eagerness  and  draw  it  down. 


140  POEMS. 

They,  gleaming   through  the  waters  as  they 

went, 
And   striking  with  light    sound   the   shining 

stones, 
Slid  down  the  stream.     The  brothers  looked 

and  watched 

And  listened  with  full  beating  hearts  till  now 
The  sight  and  sound  had  passed,  and  silently 
And  half  repentant  hastened  to  the  lodge. 

The  sun  was  near  his  set ;  the  music  rang 
Within  the  dwelling  still,  but  the  mirth  waned ; 
For  groups  of  guests  were  sauntering  toward 

their  homes 

Across  the  fields,  and  far  on  hillside  paths, 
Gleamed   the  white  robes  of  maidens.     Sell  a 

grew 

"Weary  of  the  long  merriment ;  she  thought 
Of  her  still  haunts  beneath  the  soundless  sea, 
And  all  unseen  withdrew  and  sought  the  cleft 
Where  she  had  laid  the  slippers.    They  were 

gone. 


SELLA.  14:1 

She  searched  the  brookside  near,  yet  found 

them  not. 

Then  her  heart  sank  within  her,  and  she  ran 
"Wildly  from  place  to  place,  and  once  again 
She   searched  the  secret  cleft,  and  next   she 

stooped 

And  with  spread  palms  felt  carefully  beneath 
The  tufted  herbs  and  bushes,  and  again, 
And  yet  again  she  searched  the  rocky  cleft. 
"  Who  could  have  taken  them  ?  "     That  ques 
tion  cleared 

The  mystery.     She  remembered  suddenly 
That  when  the  dance  was  in  its  gayest  whirl, 
Her    brothers   were  not  seen,  and  when,    at 

length, 

They  reappeared,  the  elder  joined  the  sports 
With  shouts  of  boisterous  mirth,  and  from  her 

eye 
The    younger    shrank  in  silence.      "  Now,   I 

know 
The  guilty  ones,"  she  said,  and  left  the  spot, 


142  POEMS. 

And  stood  before  the  youths  with  such  a  look 
Of  anguish  and  reproach  that  well  they  knew 
Her  thought,  and  almost  wished  the  deed  un 
done. 

Frankly  they  owned  the  charge :  "And  par 
don  us ; 

We  did  it  all  in  love ;  we  could  not  bear 
That  the  cold  world  of  waters  and  the  strange 
Beings  that  dwell  within  it  should  beguile 
Our  sister  from  us."     Then  they  told  her  all ; 
How  they  had  seen  her  stealthily  bestow 
The  slippers  in  the  cleft,  and  how  by  stealth 
They  took  them  thence  and  bore  them  down 

the  brook, 

And  dropped  them  in,  and  how  the  eager  waves 
Gathered   and  drew  them  down:  but  at  that 

word 

The  maiden  shrieked — a  broken-hearted  shriek — 
And  all  who  heard  it  shuddered  and  turned 

pale 
At  the  despairing  cry,  and  "  They  are  gone," 


SELLA.  143 

She  said,  "gone — gone  forever.     Cruel  ones  ! 
'Tis  you  who  shut  me  out  eternally 
From  that  serener  world  which  I  had  learned 
To  love  so  well.     Why  took  ye  not  my  life  ? 
Ye  cannot  know  what  ye  have  done."     She 

spake 

And  hurried  to  her  chamber,  and  the  guests 
Who  yet  had  lingered  silently  withdrew. 
The  brothers  followed  to  the  maiden's 

bower, 

But  with  a  calm  demeanor,  as  they  came, 
She  met  them  at  the  door.     "The  wrong  is 

great," 

She  said,  "  that  ye  have  done  me,  but  no  power 
Have  ye  to  make  it  less,  nor  yet  to  soothe 
My  sorrow ;  I  shall  bear  it  as  I  may, 
The  better  for  the  hours  that  I  have  passed 
In  the  calm  region  of  the  middle  sea. 
Go,  then.     I  need  you  not."     They,  overawed, 
Withdrew  from  that  grave  presence.     Then  her 

tears 


144:  POEMS. 

Broke  forth  a  flood,  as  when  the  August  cloud, 
Darkening  beside  the  mountain,  suddenly 
Melts  into  streams  of  rain.     That  weary  night 
She  paced  her  chamber,  murmuring   as   she 

walked, 

"  Oh  peaceful  region  of  the  middle  sea  ! 
Oh  azure  bowers  and  grots,  in  which  I  loved 
To  roam  and  rest !     Am  I  to  long  for  you, 
And  think  how  strangely  beautiful  ye  are, 
Yet  never  see  you  more  ?     And  dearer  yet, 
Ye  gentle  ones  in  whose  sweet  company 
I  trod  the  shelly  pavements  of  the  deep, 
And  swam  its   currents,  creatures  with  calm 

eyes 

Looking  the  tenderest  love,  and  voices  soft 
As  ripple  of  light  waves  along  the  shore, 
Uttering' the  tenderest  words  !     Oh !  ne'er  again 
Shall  I,  in  your  mild  aspects,  read  the  peace 
That  dwells  within,  and  vainly  shall  I  pine 
To  hear  your  sweet  low  voices.     Haply  now 
Ye  miss  me  in  your  deep-sea  home,  and  think 


BELLA.  145 

Of  me  with  pity,  as  of  one  condemned 

To  haunt   this   upper   world,   with   its  harsh 

sounds 
And   glaring    lights,   its  withering  heats,   its 

frosts, 

Cruel  and  killing,  its  delirious  strifes, 
And  all  its  feverish  passions,  till  I  die. 

So  mourned  she  the  long  night,  and  when 

the  morn 
Brightened    the  mountains,   from  her  lattice 

looked 

The  maiden  on  a  world  that  was  to  her 
A  desolate  and  dreary  waste.     That  day 
She  passed  in  wandering  by  the  brook  that  oft 
Had  been  her  pathway  to  the  sea,  and  still 
Seemed,  with  its  cheerful  murmur,  to  invite 
Her  footsteps  thither.     "Well  may'st  thou  re 
joice, 

Fortunate  stream !  "  she  said,  "  and  dance  along 
Thy  bed,  and  make  thy  course  one  ceaseless 
strain 
7 


146  POEMS. 

Of  music,  for  thou  journey est  toward  the  deep, 
To  which  I  shall  return  no  more."     The  night 
Brought  her  to  her  lone  chamber,  and  she  knelt 
And  prayed,  with  many  tears,  to  Him  whose 

hand 

Touches  the  wounded  heart  and  it  is  healed. 
"With  prayer  there  came  new  thoughts  and  new 

desires. 

She  asked  for  patience  and  a  deeper  love 
For  those  with  whom  her  lot  was  henceforth 

cast, 

And  that  in  acts  of  mercy  she  might  lose 
The  sense  of  her  own  sorrow.    "When  she  rose 
A  weight  was  lifted   from  her  heart.      She 

sought 

Her  couch,  and  slept  a  long  and  peaceful  sleep. 
At  morn  she  woke  to  a  new  life.     Her  days 
Henceforth  were  given  to  quiet  tasks  of  good 
In  the  great  world.     Men  hearkened  to  her 

words, 
And  wondered  at  their  wisdom  and  obeyed, 


BELLA.  147 

And  saw  how  beautiful  the  law  of  love 
Can  make  the  cares  and  toils  of  daily  life. 
Still  did  she  love  to  haunt  the  springs  and 

brooks, 

As  in  her  cheerful  childhood,  and  she  taught 
The  skill  to  pierce  the  soil  and  meet  the  veins 
Of  clear  cold  water  winding  underneath, 
And  call  them  forth  to  daylight.     From  afar 
She  bade  men  bring  the  rivers  on  long  rows 
Of  pillared  arches  to  the  sultry  town, 
And  on  the  hot  air  of  the  summer  fling 
The  spray  of  dashing  fountains.     To  relieve 
Their  weary  hands,  she  showed  them  how  to 

tame 
The  rushing  stream,  and  make  him  drive  the 

wheel 
That  whirls  the  humming  millstone  and  that 

wields 
The  ponderous    sledge.      The  waters  of   the 

cloud, 
That  drench  the  hillside  in  the  time  of  rains, 


14:8  POEMS. 

Were  gathered  at  her  bidding  into  pools, 
And  in  the  months  of  drought  led  forth  again, 
In  glimmering  rivulets,  to  refresh  the  vales, 
Till  the  sky  darkened  with  returning  showers. 
So  passed  her  life,  along  and  blameless  life, 
And  far  and  near  her  name  was  named  with 

love 

And  reverence.     Still  she  kept,  as  age  came  on, 
Her  stately  presence;    still  her   eyes   looked 

forth 

From  under  their  calm  brows  as  brightly  clear 
As  the  transparent  wells  by  which  she  sat 
So  oft  in  childhood.     Still  she  kept  her  fair 
Unwrinkled  features,  though  her  locks  were 

white. 

A  hundred  times  had  summer  since  her  birth 
Opened  the  water  lily  on  the  lakes, 
So  old  traditions  tell,  before  she  died. 
A  hundred  cities  mourned  her,  and  her  death 
Saddened  the  pastoral  valleys.     By  the  brook, 
That  bickering  ran  beside  the  cottage  door 


BELLA.  149 

Where   she  was  born,  they  reared  her  monu 
ment. 

Ere  long  the  current  parted  and  flowed  round 
The  marble  base,  forming  a  little  isle, 
And  there  the  flowers  that  love  the  running 

stream, 

Iris  and  orchis,  and  the  cardinal  flower, 
Crowded  and  hung  caressingly  around 
The  stone  engraved  with  Sella's  honored  name. 


THE 

FIFTH  BOOK   OF  HOMEE'S  ODYSSEY. 

TRANSLATED. 

AUKOKA,  rising  from  her  couch  beside 
The  famed  Tithonus,  brought  the  light  of  day 
To  men  and  to  immortals.     Then  the  gods 
Came  to  their  seats  in  council.     With  them 

came 

High  thundering  Jupiter,  amongst  them  all 
The  mightiest.     Pallas,  mindful  of  the  past, 
Spoke  of  Ulysses  and  his  many  woes, 
Grieved   that   he  still    was   with    the    island 

nymph. 


151 


"  Oh,  father  Jove,  and  all  ye  blessed  ones 
Who  live  forever  !  let  not  sceptred  king 
Henceforth,  be  gracious,  mild,  and  merciful, 
And  righteous  ;  rather  be  he  deaf  to  prayer, 
And  prone  to  deeds  of  wrong,  since  no  one  now 
Remembers  the  divine  Ulysses  more 
Among  the  people  over  whom  he  ruled, 
Benignly,  like  a  father.     Still  he  lies, 
"Weighed  down  by  many  sorrows,  in  the  isle 
And  dwelling  of  Calypso,  who  so  long 
Constrains  his  stay.     To  his  dear  native  land 
Depart  he  cannot ;  ship,  arrayed  with  oars, 
And  seamen  has  he  none,  to  bear  him  o'er 
The  breast  of  the  broad  ocean.    Nay,  even  now, 
Against  his  well-beloved  son  a  plot 
Is  laid,  to  slay  him  as  he  journeys  home 
From  Pylos  the  divine,  and  from  the  walls 
Of  famous  Sparta,  whither  he  had  gone 
To  gather  tidings  of  his  father's  fate." 

Then  answered  her  the  ruler  of  the  storms : 
"  My  child,  what  words  are  these  that  pass  thy 
lips? 


152  POEMS. 

Was  not  thy  long-determined  counsel  this, 
That,  in  good  time,  Ulysses  should  return, 
To  be  avenged  ?     Guide,  then,  Telemachus, 
Wisely,  for  so  thou  canst,  that,  all  unharmed, 
He  reach  his  native  land,  and,  in  their  barks, 
Homeward  the  suitor-train  retrace  their  way." 
He  spoke,  and  turned  to  Hermes,  his  dear 

son : 

"  Hermes,  for  thou,  in  this,  my  messenger 
Art,    as   in   all    things,    to   the    bright-haired 

nymph 

Make  known  my  steadfast  purpose,  the  return 
Of  suffering  Ulysses.     Neither  gods 
Nor  men  shall  guide  his  voyage.     On  a  raft, 
Made   firm  with   bands,  he  shall  depart   and 

reach, 

After  long  hardships,  on  the  twentieth  day, 
The  fertile  shore  of  Scheria,  on  whose  isle 
Dwell  the  Pheacians,  kinsmen  of  the  gods. 
They  like  a  god  shall  honor  him,  and  thence 
Send  him  to  his  loved  country  in  a  ship, 


153 


With  ample  gifts  of  brass  and  gold,  and  store 
Of  raiment — wealth  like  which  he  ne'er  had 

brought 

From  conquered  Ilion,  had  he  reached  his  home 
Safely,  with  all  his  portion  of  the  spoil. 
So  is  it  preordained,  that  he  behold 
His  friends  again,  and  stand  once  more  within 
His  high-roofed  palace,  on  his  native  soil." 
He  spake  ;  the  herald  Argicide  obeyed, 
And  hastily  beneath  his  feet  he  bound 
The  fair,  ambrosial,  golden  sandals,  worn 
To  bear  him  over  ocean  like  the  wind, 
And  o'er  the  boundless  land.     His  wand  he 

took, 

Wherewith  he  softly  seals  the  eyes  of  men, 
And  opens  them  at  will  from  sleep.   .With  this 
In  hand,  the  mighty  Argos-queller  flew, 
And  lighting  on  Pieria,  from  the  sky 
Plunged  downward  to  the  deep,  and  skimmed 

its  face 

Like  hovering  sea-mew,  that  on  the  broad  gulfs 
7* 


154:  POEMS. 

Of  the  unfruitful  ocean  seeks  her  prey, 
And  often  dips  her  pinions  in  the  brine, 
So  Hermes  flew  along  the  waste  of  waves. 

But  when  he  reached  that  island,  far  away, 
Forth    from    the    dark    blue    ocean-swell    he 

stepped 

Upon  the  sea-beach,  walking  till  he  came 
To  the  vast  cave  in  which  the  bright-haired 

nymph 

Made  her  abode.    He  found  the  nymph  within. 
A  fire  blazed  brightly  on  the  hearth,  and  far 
Was  wafted  o'er  the  isle  the  fragrant  smoke 
Of  cloven  cedar,  burning  in  the  flame. 
And  cypress  wood.     Meanwhile,  in  her  recess, 
She  sweetly  sang,  as  busily  she  threw 
The  golden  shuttle  through  the  web  she  wove. 
And  all  about  the  grotto  alders  grew, 
And  poplars,  and  sweet-smelling  cypresses, 
In  a  green  forest,  high  among  whose  boughs 
Birds  of  broad  wing,  wood-owls  and  falcons, 

built 


Their  nests,  and  crows,  with  voices  sounding 

far, 

All  haunting  for  their  food  the  ocean  side. 
A    vine,   with   downy  leaves    and    clustering 

grapes, 

Crept  over  all  the  cavern  rock.  Four  springs 
Poured  forth  their  glittering  waters  in  a  row, 
And  here  and  there  went  wandering  side  by 

side. 

Around  were  meadows  of  soft  green,  o'ergrown 
With  violets  and  parsley.     'Twas  a  spot 
Where  even  an  Immortal  might,  awhile, 
Linger,  and  gaze  with  wonder  and  delight. 
The  herald  Argos-queller  stood,  and  saw, 
And  marvelled  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  had  viewed 
The  wonders  of  the  place,  he  turned  his  steps, 
Entering  the  broad-roofed  cave.    Calypso  there, 
The  glorious  goddess,  saw  him  as  he  came, 
And  knew  him,  for  the  ever-living  gods 
Are  to   each  other  known,  though  one  may 

dwell 


156  POEMS. 

Far  from  the  rest.     Ulysses,  large  of  heart, 
Was  not  within.     Apart,  upon  the  shore, 
He  sat  and  sorrowed,  where  he  oft,  in  tears 
And    sighs    and    vain   repinings,   passed    the 

hours, 

Gazing  with  wet  eyes  on  the  barren  deep. 
!N"ow,  placing  Hermes  on  a  shining  seat 
Of  state,  Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  said, 

"  Thou  of  the  golden  wand,  revered  and 

loved, 
What,  Hermes,  brings  thee  hither?    Passing 

few 
Have   been   thy  visits.      Make   thy  pleasure 

known, 

My  heart  enjoins  me  to  obey,  if  aught 
That  thou  commandest  be  within  my  power, 
But  first  accept  the  offerings  due  a  guest." 
The  goddess,   speaking    thus,   before    him 

placed 

A  table  where  the  heaped  ambrosia  lay, 
And  mingled  the  red  nectar.     Ate  and  drank 


ODYSSEY.          157 

The  herald  Argos-queller,  and,  refreshed, 
Answered  the  nymph,  and  made  his  message 

known : 

"  Art  thou  a  goddess,  and  dost  ask  of  me, 
A  god,  why  came  I  hither  ?     Yet,  since  thou 
Requirest,  I  will  truly  tell  the  cause. 
I  came  unwillingly  at  Jove's  command, 
For  who,  of  choice,  would  traverse  the  wide 

waste 

Of  the  salt  ocean,  with  no  city  near, 
Where  men  adore  the  gods  with  solemn  rites 
And  chosen  hecatombs.     No  god  has  power 
To  elude  or  to  resist  the  purposes 
Of  segis-bearing  Jove.    With  thee  abides, 
He  bids  me  say,  the  most  unhappy  man 
Of  all  who  round  the  city  of  Priam  waged 
The   battle  through  nine  years,  and,  in    the 

tenth, 

Laying  it  waste,  departed  for  their  homes. 
But,  in  their  voyage,  they  provoked  the  wrath 
Of  Pallas,  who  called  up  the  furious  winds 


158  POEMS. 

And  angry  waves  against  them.     By  his  side 
Sank  all  his  gallant  comrades  in  the  deep. 
Him  did  the  winds  and  waves  drive  hither. 

Him 

Jove  bids  thee  send  away  with  speed,  for  here 
He  must  not  perish,  far  from  all  he  loves. 
So  is  it  preordained  that  he  behold 
His  friends  again,  and  stand  once  more  within 
His  high-roofed  palace,  on  his  native  soil." 

He  spoke,  Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  heard, 
And  shuddered,  and   with  winged  words  re 
plied  : 

"  Ye  are  unjust,  ye  gods,  and,  envious  far 
Beyond  all  other  beings,  cannot  bear 
That  ever  goddess  openly  should  make 
A  mortal  man  her  consort.     Thus  it  was 
When  once  Aurora,  rosy-fingered,  took 
Orion  for  her  husband  ;  ye  were  stung, 
Amid  your  blissful  lives,  with  envious  hate, 
Till  chaste  Diana,  of  the  golden  throne, 
Smote  him  with  silent  arrows  from  her  bow, 


And  slew  him  in  Ortygia.     Thus,  again, 
"When  bright-haired  Ceres,  swayed  by  her  own 

heart, 

In  fields  which  bore  three  yearly  harvests,  met 
lasion  as  a  lover,  this  was  known 
Ere  long  to  Jupiter,  who  flung  from  high 
A  flaming  thunderbolt,  and  laid  him  dead. 
And  now  ye  envy  me,  that  with  me  dwells 
A  mortal  man.     I  saved  him,  as  he  clung, 
Alone,  upon  his  floating  keel,  for  Jove 
Had  cloven,  with  a  bolt  of  fire,  from  heaven, 
His  galley  in  the  midst  of  the  black  sea, 
And  all  his  gallant  comrades  perished  there. 
Him  kindly  I  received  ;  I  cherished  him, 
And  promised  him  a  life  that  ne'er  should  know 
Decay  or  death.     But,  since  no  god  has  power 
To  elude  or  to  withstand  the  purposes 
Of  aegis-bearing  Jove,  let  him  depart, 
If  so  the  sovereign  moves  him  and  commands, 
Over  the  barren  deep.     I  send  him  not ; 
For  neither  ship  arrayed  with  oars  have  I, 


160  POEMS. 

Nor  seamen,  o'er  the  boundless  waste  of  waves 
To  bear  him  hence.     My  counsel  I  will  give, 
And  nothing  will  I  hide  that  he  should  know, 
To  place  him  safely  on  his  native  shore." 

The  herald  Argos-queller  answered  her  : 
"  Dismiss   him    thus,  and   bear   in   mind  the 

wrath 
Of  Jove,  lest  it  be  kindled  against  thee." 

Thus  having  said,  the  mighty  Argicide 
Departed,  and  the  nymph,  who  now  had  heard 
The  doom  of  Jove,  sought  the  great-hearted 

man, 

Ulysses.     Him  she  found  beside  the  deep, 
Seated  alone,  with  eyes  from  which  the  tears 
Were  never  dried,  for  now  no  more  the  nymph 
Delighted  him  ;  he  wasted  his  sweet  life 
In  yearning  for  his  home.     Night  after  night 
He  slept  constrained  within  the  hollow  cave, 
The  unwilling  by  the  fond,  and,  day  by  day, 
He  sat  upon  the  rocks  that  edged  the  shore, 
And  in  continual  weeping  and  in  sighs 


161 


And  vain  repimngs,  wore  the  hours  away, 
Gazing  through  tears  upon  the  barren  deep. 
The  glorious  goddess  stood  by  him  and  spoke  : 
"  Unhappy  !  sit  no  longer  sorrowing  here, 
Nor  waste  life  thus.     Lo  !  I  most  willingly 
Dismiss  thee  hence.     Rise,  hew  down  trees, 

and  bind 

Their  trunks,  with  brazen  clamps,  into  a  raft, 
And  fasten  planks  above,  a  lofty  floor, 
That  it  may  bear  thee  o'er  the  dark  blue  deep. 
Bread  will  I  put  on  board,  water,  and  wine, 
Red  wine,  that  cheers  the  heart,  and  wrap  thee 

well 

In  garments,  and  send  after  thee  the  wind, 
That  safely  thou  attain  thy  native  shore  ; 
If  so  the  gods  permit  thee,  who  abide 
In  the  broad  heaven  above,  and  better  know 
By  far  than  I,  and  far  more  wisely  judge." 
Ulysses,  the  great  sufferer,  as  she  spoke, 
Shuddered,  and  thus  with  winged  words  re 
plied : 


162  POEMS. 

"  Some  other  purpose  than  to  send  me  home 
Is  in  thy  heart,  oh  goddess,  bidding  me 
To  cross  this  frightful  sea  upon  a  raft, 
The  perilous  sea,  where  never  even  ships 
Pass  with  their  rapid  keels,  though  Jove  bestow 
The  wind  that  glads  the  seaman.    Nay,  I  climb 
]STo  raft,  against  thy  wish,  unless  thou  swear 
The  great  oath  of  the  gods,  that  thou,  in  this, 
Dost  meditate  no  other  harm  to  me." 

He     spake ;     Calypso,    glorious     goddess, 

smiled, 
And  smoothed  his  forehead  with  her  hand,  and 

said: 
"  Perverse !  and  slow  to  see  where  guile  is 

not ! 

How  could  thy  heart  permit  thee  thus  to  speak  ? 
ISTow  bear  me  witness,  Earth,  and  ye  broad 

Heavens 

Above  us,  and  ye  waters  of  the.1  Styx 
That  flow  beneath'us,  mightiest  oath  of  all, 
And  most  revered  by  all  the  blessed  gods, 


FIFTH   BOOK    OF   HOMERS   ODYSSEY.          163 

That  I  design  no  other  harm  to  thee ; 
But  that  I  plan  for  thee  and  counsel  thee 
What  I  would  do  were  I  in  need  like  thine. 
I  bear  a  jnster  mind  ;  my  bosom  holds 
A  pitying  heart,  and  not  a  heart  of  steel." 
Thus    having    said,   the    glorious    goddess 

moved 

Away  with  hasty  steps,  and  where  she  trod 
He  followed,  till  they  reached  the  vaulted  cave, 
The  goddess  and  the  hero.     There  he  took 
The  seat  whence  Hermes  had  just  risen.     The 

nymph 

Brought  forth  whatever  mortals  eat  and  drink 
To  set  before  him.     She,  right  opposite 
To  that  of  great  Ulysses,  took  her  seat. 
Ambrosia  there  her  maidens  laid,  and  there 
Poured  nectar.      Both  put  forth  their  hands, 

and  took 

The  ready  viands,  till  at  length  the  calls 
Of  hunger  and  of  thirst  were  satisfied  ; 
Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  then  began  : 


164:  POEMS. 

"  Son  of  Laertes,  man  of  many  wiles, 
High-bom  Ulysses  !     Thus  wilt  thou  depart 
Home  to  thy  native  country  ?     Then  farewell ; 
But,  couldst  thou  know  the  sufferings  Fate  or 
dains 

For  thee  ere  yet  thou  landest  on  its  shore, 
Thou  wouldst  remain  to  keep  this  home  with 

me, 

And  be  immortal,  strong  as  is  thy  wish 
To  see  thy  wife— a  wish  that,  day  by  day, 
Possesses  thee.    I  cannot  deem  myself 
In  form  or  face  less  beautiful  than  she. 
For  never  with  immortals  can  the  race 
Of  mortal  dames  in  form  or  face  compare." 

Ulysses,  the  sagacious,  answered  her, 
"  Bear  with  me,  gracious  goddess  ;  well  I  know 
All  thou  couldst  say.     The  sage  Penelope 
In  feature  and  in  stature  comes  not  nigh 
To  thee  ;  for  she  is  mortal,  deathless  thou 
And  ever  young  ;  yet,  day  by  day,  I  long 
To  be  at  home  once  more,  and  pine  to  see 


The  hour  of  my  return.     Even  though  some 

god 

Smite  me  on  the  black  ocean,  I  shall  bear 
The  stroke,  for  in  my  bosom  dwells  a  mind 
Patient  of  suffering  ;  much  have  I  endured, 
And  much  survived,  in  tempests  on  the  deep, 
And  in  the  battle  ;  let  this  happen  too." 

He  spoke ;  the  sun  went  down ;  the  night 

came  on, 

And  now  the  twain  withdrew  to  a  recess 
Deep  in  the  vaulted  cave,  where,  side  by  side, 
They  took  their  rest.     But  when  the  child  of 

dawn, 

Aurora,  rosy- fingered,  looked  abroad, 
Ulysses  put  his  vest  and  mantle  on ; 
The  nymph  too,  in  a  robe  of  silver  white, 
Ample,  and  delicate,  and  beautiful, 
Arrayed  herself,  and  round  about  her  loins 
Wound  a  fair  golden  girdle,  drew  a  veil 
Over  her  head,  and  planned  to  send  away 
Magnanimous  Ulysses.     She  bestowed 


166  POEMS. 

A  heavy  axe,  of  steel,  and  double  edged, 

Well  fitted  to  the  hand,  the  handle  wrought 

Of  olive  wood,  firm  set,  and  beautiful. 

A  polished  adze  she  gave  him  next,  and  led 

The  way  to  a  far  corner  of  the  isle, 

"Where  lofty  trees,  alders  and  poplars,  stood, 

And  firs  that  reached  the  clouds,  sapless  and  dry 

Long  since,  and  fitter  thus  to  ride  the  waves. 

Then,  having  shown  where  grew   the  tallest 

trees, 

Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  sought  her  home. 
Trees  then  he  felled,  and  soon  the  task  was 

done. 

Twenty  in  all  he  brought  to  earth,  and  squared 
Their  trunks  with  the  sharp  steel,  and  carefully 
He  smoothed  their  sides,  and  wrought  them  by 

a  line. 

Calypso,  gracious  goddess,  having  brought 
Wimbles,  he  bored  the  beams,  and,  fitting  them 
Together,    made    them    fast    with    nails    and 

clamps. 


167 


As  when  some  builder,  skilful  in  his  art, 
Frames,  for  a  ship  of  burden,  the  broad  keel, 
Such  ample  breadth  Ulysses  gave  the  raft. 
Upon  the  massy  beams  he  reared  a  deck, 
And  floored  it  with  long  planks  from  end  to 

end. 

On  this  a  mast  he  raised,  and  to  the  mast 
Fitted  a  yard  ;  he  shaped  a  rudder  neat, 
To  guide  the  raft  along  her  course,  and  round 
With  woven  work  of  willow  boughs  he  fenced 
Her  sides  against  the  dashings  of  the  sea. 
Calypso,  gracious  goddess,  brought  him  store 
Of  canvas,  which  he  fitly  shaped  to  sails, 
And,  rigging  her  with  cords,  and  ropes,  and 

stays, 

Heaved  her  with  levers  into  the  great  deep. 
'Twas  the  fourth  day ;  his  labors  now  were 

done, 

And,  on  the  fifth,  the  goddess  from  her  isle 
Dismissed  him,  newly  from  the  bath,  arrayed 
In  garments  given  by  her,  that  shed  perfumes. 


168  POEMS. 

A  skin  of  dark  red  wine  she  put  on  board, 

A  larger  one  of  water,  and  for  food 

A  basket,  stored  with,  viands -such  as  please 

The  appetite.     A  friendly  wind  and  soft 

She  sent  before.     The  great  Ulysses  spread 

His  canvas  joyfully,  to  catch  the  breeze, 

And  sat  and  guided  with  nice  care  the  helm, 

Gazing  with  fixed  eye  on  the  Pleiades, 

Bootes  setting  late,  and  the  Great  Bear, 

By  others  called  the  Wain,  which,  wheeling 

round, 

Looks  ever  toward  Orion,  and  alone 
Dips  not  into  the  waters  of  the  deep. 
For  so  Calypso,  glorious  goddess,  bade 
That,  on  his  ocean  journey,  he  should  keep 
That  constellation  ever  on  his  left. 
Now  seventeen  days  were  in  the  voyage  past, 
And  on  the  eighteenth  shadowy  heights  ap 
peared, 

The  nearest  point  of  the  Pheacian  land, 
Lying  on  the  dark  ocean  like  a  shield. 


FIFTH   BOOK   OF   HOMER's    ODYSSEY,          169 

But  mighty  Neptune,  coming  from  among 
The  Ethiopians,  saw  him.     Far  away 
He  saw,  from  mountain  heights  of  Solyma, 
The  voyager,  and  burned  with  fiercer  wrath, 
And  shook  his  head,  and  said  within  himself: 

"  Strange !   now  I  see  the  gods  have  new 

designs 

For  this  Ulysses,  formed  while  I  was  yet 
In  Ethiopia.     He  draws  near  the  land 
Of  the  Pheacians,  where  it  is  decreed 
He  shall  o'erpass  the  boundary  of  his  woes  ; 
But  first,  I  think,  he  will  have  much  to  bear." 

He  spoke,  and  round  about  him  called  the 

clouds 

And  roused  the  ocean,  wielding  in  his  hand 
The  trident,  summoned  all  the  hurricanes 
Of  all  the  winds,  and  covered  earth  and  sky 
At  once  with  mists,  while  from  above,  the  night 
Fell  suddenly.     The  east  wind  and  the  south 
Brushed  forth  at  once,  with  the  strong-blowing 
west, 
8 


1YO  POEMS. 

And  the  clear  north  rolled  up  his  mighty  waves. 
Ulysses  trembled  in  his  knees  and  heart, 
And  thus  to  his  great  soul,  lamenting,  said : 

"  What  will  become  of  me  ?  unhappy  man  ! 
I  fear  that  all  the  goddess  said  was  true, 
Foretelling  what  disasters  should  o'ertake 
My  voyage,  ere  I  reach  my  native  land. 
ISTow  are  her  words  fulfilled.     How  Jupiter 
Wraps  the  great  heaven  in  clouds  and  stirs  the 

deep 

To  tumult !     Wilder  grow  the  hurricanes 
Of  all  the  winds,  and  now  my  fate  is  sure. 
Thrice  happy,  four  times  happy  they,  who  fell 
On  Troy's  wide  field,  warring  for  Atreus'  sons. 
Oh,  had  I  met  my  fate  and  perished  there, 
That  very  day  on  which  the  Trojan  host, 
Around  the  dead  Achilles,  hurled  at  me 
Their  brazen  javelins  ;  I  had  then  received 
Due  burial  and  great  glory  with  the  Greeks  ; 
Now  must  I  die  a  miserable  death." 

As  thus  he  spoke,  upon  him,  from  on  high, 


FIFTH  BOOK   OF  HOMEK5S   ODYSSEY.          171 

A  huge  and  frightful  billow  broke  ;  it  whirled 
The  raft  around,  and  far  from  it  he  fell. 
His  hands  let  go  the  rudder  ;  a  fierce  rush 
Of  all  the  winds  together  snapped  in  twain 
The  mast ;  far  off  the  yard  and  canvas  flew 
Into  the  deep  ;  the  billow  held  him  long 
Beneath  the  waters,  and  he  strove  in  vain 
Quickly  to  rise  to  air  from  that  huge  swell 
Of  ocean,  for  the  garments  weighed  him  down 
Which  fair  Calypso  gave  him.     But,  at  length, 
Emerging,  he  rejected  from  his  throat 
The    bitter    brine    that     down    his    forehead 

streamed. 
Even  then,  though  hopeless  with  dismay,  his 

thought 
Was  on  the  raft,  and,  struggling  through  the 

waves, 

He  seized  it,  sprang  on  board,  and  seated  there 
Escaped  the  threatened  death.     Still  to  and  fro 
The  rolling  billows  drove  it.     As  the  wind 
In  autumn  sweeps  the  thistles  o'er  the  field. 


172 


POEMS. 


Clinging  together,  so  the  blasts  of  heaven 
Hither  and  thither  drove  it  o'er  the  sea. 
And  now  the  south  wind  flung  it  to  the  north 
To  buffet ;  now  the  east  wind  to  the  west. 

Ino  Leucothea  saw  him  clinging  there, 
The  delicate-footed  child  of  Cadmus,  once 
A  mortal,  speaking  with  a  mortal  voice, 
Though  now,  within  the  ocean-gulfs,  she  shares 
The  honors  of  the  gods.     "With  pity  she 
Beheld  Ulysses  struggling  thus  distressed, 
And,  rising  from  the  abyss  below,  in  form 
A  cormorant,  the  sea-nymph  took  her  perch 
On  the  well-banded  raft,  and  thus  she  said : 

"  Ah,  luckless  man,  how  hast  thou  angered 

thus 

Earth-shaking  Neptune,  that  he  visits  thee 
"With  these  disasters  ?     Yet  he  cannot  take, 
Although  he  seek  it  earnestly,  thy  life. 
Now  do  my  bidding,  for  thou  seemest  wise. 
Laying  aside  thy  garments,  let  the  raft 
Drift  with  the  winds,  while  thou,  by  strength 
of  arm, 


FIFTH   BOOK   OF   HOMERS    ODYSSEY.          173 

Makest  thy  way  in  swimming  to  the  land 
Of  the  Pheacians,  where  thy  safety  lies. 
Receive  this  veil  and  bind  its  heavenly  woof 
Beneath  thy  breast,  and  have  no  further  fear 
Of  hardship  or  of  danger.     But,  as  soon 
As  thou  shalt  touch  the  island,  take  it  off, 
And  turn  away  thy  face,  and  fling  it  far 
From  where  thou  standest,  into  the  black  deep." 

The  goddess  gave  the  veil  as  thus  she  spoke, 
And  to  the  tossing  deep  went  down,  in  form 
A  cormorant ;  the  black  wave  covered  her. 
But  still  Ulysses,  mighty  sufferer, 
Pondered,  and  thus  to  his  great  soul  he  said  : 

"  Ah  me !   perhaps  some  god  is  planning 

here 

Some  other  fraud  against  me,  bidding  me 
Forsake  my  raft.     I  will  not  yet  obey, 
For  still  far  off  I  see  the  land  in  which 
'Tis  said  my  refuge  lies.     This  will  I  do, 
For  this  seems  wisest.     While  the  fastenings  last 
That  hold  these  timbers,  I  will  keep  my  place 


174:  POEMS. 

And  bide  the  tempest  here.    But  when  the 

waves 

Shall  dash  my  raft  in  pieces,  I  will  swim, 
For  nothing  better  will  remain  to  do." 

As  he  revolved  this  purpose  in  his  mind, 
Earth-shaking  Neptune  sent  a  mighty  wave, 
Horrid,  and  huge,  and  high,  and  where  he  sat 
It  smote  him.    As  a  violent  wind  uplifts 
The  dry  chaff  heaped  upon  a  threshing  floor, 
And  sends  it  scattered  through  the  air  abroad, 
So  did  that  wave  fling  loose  the  ponderous 

beams. 

To  one  of  these,  Ulysses,  clinging  fast, 
Bestrode  it,  like  a  horseman  on  his  steed  ; 
And  now  he  took  the  garments  off,  bestowed 
By  fair  Calypso,  binding  round  his  breast 
The  veil,  and  forward  plunged  into  the  deep, 
With    palms    outspread,    prepared    to    swim. 

Meanwhile, 

Neptune  beheld  him,  Neptune,  mighty  king, 
And  shook  his  head,  and  said  within  himself, 


FIFTH   BOOK   OF   HOMEK's   ODYSSEY.         175 

"  Go  thus,   and,   laden    with    mischances, 

roam 

The  waters,  till  thou  come  among  the  race 
Cherished  by  Jupiter  ;  but  well  I  deem 
Thou  wilt  not  find  thy  share  of  suffering  light." 
Thus  having  spoke,  he  urged  his  coursers  on, 
With  their  fair  flowing  manes,  until  he  came 
To  ^Egse,  where  his  glorious  palace  stands. 
But    Pallas,    child     of    Jove,    had    other 

thoughts. 

She  stayed  the  course  of  every  wind  beside, 
And   bade  them  rest,  and    lulled  them  into 

sleep, 
But  summoned  the  swift  north  to  break  the 

waves, 

That  so  Ulysses,  the  high-born,  escaped 
From  death  and  from  the  fates,  might  be  the 

guest 
Of  the  Fheacians,  men  who  love  the  sea. 

Two  days  and  nights,  among  the  mighty 
waves 


176  POEMS. 

He  floated,  oft  his  heart  foreboding  death, 
But  when  the  bright-haired  Eos  had  fulfilled 
The  third  day's  course,  and  all  the  winds  were 

laid, 

And  calm  was  on  the  watery  waste,  he  saw 
That  land  was  near,  as,  lifted  on  the  crest 
Of  a  huge  swell,  he  looked  with   sharpened 

sight ; 

And  as  a  father's  life  preserved  makes  glad 
His  children's  heart,  when  long-time  he  has 

lain 
Sick,  wrung  with  pain,  and  wasting  by  the 

power 

Of  some  malignant  genius,  till,  at  length, 
The  gracious  gods  bestow  a  welcome  cure  ; 
So  welcome  to  Ulysses  was  the  sight 
Of  woods   and  fields.     By  swimming  on   he 

thought 

To  climb  and  tread  the  shore,  but  when  he  drew 
So  near  that  one  who  shouted  could  be  heard 
From  land,  the  sound  of  ocean  on  the  rocks 


ITT 


Came  to  his  ear,  for  there  huge  breakers  roared 
And  spouted  fearfully,  and  all  around 
Was  covered  with  the  sea-foam.     Haven  here 
"Was  none  for  ships,  nor  sheltering  creek,  but 

shores 

Beetling  from  high,  and  crags  and  walls  of  rock. 
Ulysses  trembled  both  in  knees  and  heart, 
And  thus,  to  his  great  soul,  lamenting,  said  : 
"  Now  woe  is   me !  as  soon  as   Jove  has 

shown 

What  I  had  little  hoped  to  see,  the  land, 
And  I  through  all  these  waves  have  ploughed 

my  way, 

I  find  no  issue  from  the  hoary  deep. 
For  sharp  rocks  border  it,  and  all  around 
Roar  the  wild  surges  ;  slippery  cliffs  arise 
Close  to  deep  gulfs,  and  footing  there  is  none, 
Where  I  might  plant  my  steps  and  thus  escape. 
All  effort  now  were  fruitless  to  resist 
The  mighty  billow  hurrying  me  away 
To  dash  me  on  the  pointed  rocks.     If  yet 


ITS  POEMS. 

I  strive,  by  swimming  further,  to  descry- 
Some  sloping  shore  or  harbor  of  the  isle, 
I  fear  the  tempest,  lest  it  hurl  me  back, 
Heavily  groaning,  to  the  fishy  deep. 
Or  huge  sea  monster,  from  the  multitude 
"Which  sovereign  Amphitrite  feeds,  be  sent 
Against  me  by  some  god,  for  well  I  know 
The  power  who  shakes  the  shores  is  wroth  with 

me." 
While  he  revolved  these  doubts  within  his 

mind 
A  huge  wave  hurled  him  toward  the  rugged 

coast. 
Then  had  his  limbs  been  flayed,  and  all  his 

bones 

Broken  at  once,  had  not  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Minerva,  prompted  him.  Borne  toward  the  rock, 
He  clutched  it  instantly,  with  both  his  hands, 
And,  panting,  clung,  till  that  huge  wave  rolled 

by, 

And  so  escaped  its  fury.     Back  it  came, 


FIFTH    BOOK    OF   HOMER5S    ODYSSEY.          179 

And  smote  him  once  again,  and  flung  Mm  far 
Seaward.     As  to  the  claws  of  polypus, 
Plucked  from  its  bed,  the  pebbles  thickly  cling, 
So  flakes  of  skin,  from  off  his  powerful  hands, 
Were  left  upon  the  rock.     The  mighty  surge 
O'erwhelmed  him;    he  had  perished   ere  his 

time, 

Hapless  Ulysses,  but  the  blue-eyed  maid 
Pallas,    informed     his     mind     with    wisdom. 

Straight 

Emerging  from  the  wave  that  shoreward  rolled, 
He  swam  along  the  coast  and  eyed  it  well, 
In  hope  of  sloping  beach  or  sheltered  creek. 
But  when,  in  swimming,  he  had  reached  the 

mouth 

Of  a  soft-flowing  river,  here  appeared 
The  spot  he  wished  for,  smooth,  without  a  rock, 
And  here  was  shelter  from  the  wind.     He  felt 
The  current's  flow,  and  thus  devoutly  prayed  : 
"  Hear  me,  oh  sovereign  power,  whoe'er 

thou  art ! 


180  POEMS. 

To  thee,  the  long  desired,  I  come.     I  seek 
Escape  from  Neptune's  threatenings  on  the  sea. 
The  deathless  gods  respect  the  prayer  of  him 
Who  looks  to  them  for  help,  a  fugitive, 
As  I  am  now,  when  to  thy  stream  I  come, 
And  to  thy  knees,  from  many  a  hardship  past, 
Oh  thou  that  here  art  ruler,  I  declare 
Myself  thy  suppliant ;  be  thou  merciful." 

He   spoke ;   the  river   stayed   his   current, 

checked 
The  billows,  smoothed  them  to  a  calm,  and 

gave 

The  swimmer  a  safe  landing  at  his  mouth. 
Then  dropped  his  knees  and  sinewy  arms,  at 

once 
Unstrung,  for  faint   with  struggling  was  his 

heart. 
His  body  was  all  swoln ;    the  brine  gushed 

forth 

From  mouth  and  nostrils  ;  all  unnerved  he  lay, 
Breathless  and  speechless  ;  utter  weariness 


181 


O'ermastered  him.      But  when  he    breathed 

again, 

And  his  flown  senses  had  returned,  he  loosed 
The  veil  that  Ino  gave  him  from  his  breast, 
And  to  the  salt  flood  cast  it.     A  great  wave 
Bore  it  far  down  the  stream  ;  the  goddess  there 
In  her  own  hands  received  it.    He,  meanwhile. 
Withdrawing  from  the  brink,  lay  down  among 
The  reeds,  and  kissed  the  harvest-bearing  earth, 
And  thus  to  his  great  soul,  lamenting,  said : 
"  Ah  me  !  what  must  I  suffer  more  !  what 

yet 

"Will  happen  to  me  ?     If,  by  the  river's  side, 
I  pass  the  unfriendly  watches  of  the  night, 
The  cruel  cold  and  dews  that  steep  the  bank 
May,  in  this  weakness,  end  me  utterly 
For  chilly  blows  the  river  air  at  dawn. 
But  should  I  climb  this  hill,  to  sleep  within 
The  shadowy  wood,  among  thick  shrubs,  if  cold 
And  weariness  allow  me,  then  I  fear, 
That,  while  the  pleasant  slumbers  o'er  me  steal, 
I  may  become  the  prey  of  savage  beasts." 


182  POEMS. 

Yet,  as  he  longer  pondered  this   seemed 

best. 

He  rose  and  sought  the  wood,  and  found  it  near 
The  water,  on  a  height,  o'erlooking  far 
The  region  round.     Between  two  shrubs,  that 

sprung 

Both  from  one  spot,  he  entered, — olive  trees. 
One  wild,   one   fruitful.     The    damp-blowing 

wind 

Ne'er  pierced  their  covert ;  never  blazing  sun 
Darted  his  beams  within,  nor  pelting  shower 
Beat  through,  so  closely  intertwined  they  grew. 
Here  entering,  Ulysses  heaped  a  bed 
Of  leaves  with  his  own  hands ;    he  made  it 

broad 
And    high,   for  thick  the    leaves    had  fallen 

around. 

Two  men  and  three,  in  that  abundant  store, 
Might  bide  the  winter  storm,  though  keen  the 

cold. 
Ulysses,  the  great  sufferer,  on  his  couch 


Looked  and  rejoiced,  and  placed  himself  with 
in, 
And  heaped  the  leaves  high  o'er    him   and 

around. 

As  one  who,  dwelling  in  the  distant  fields, 
Without  a  neighbor  near  him,  hides  a  brand 
In  the  dark  ashes,  keeping  carefully 
The  seeds  of  fire  alive,  lest  he,  perforce, 
To  light  his  hearth  must  bring  them  from  afar ; 
So  did  Ulysses,  in  that  pile  of  leaves, 
Bury  himself,  while  Pallas  o'er  his  eyes 
Poured  sleep  and  closed  his  lids,  that  he  might 

take, 
After  his  painful  toils,  the  fitting  rest. 

Revised  November  15,  1862. 


THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  SNOW. 

Alice. — One  of  your  old  world  stories.  Uncle 

John, 

Such  as  you  tell  us  by  the  winter  fire, 
Till  we  all  wonder  it  has  grown  so  late. 

Uncle  John. — The  story  of  the  witch  that 

ground  to  death 

Two  children  in  her  mill,  or  will  you  have 
The  tale  of  Goody  Cutpurse  ? 

Alice. —  Nay  now,  nay  ; 

Those  stories  are  too  childish,  Uncle  John, 
Too  childish  even  for  little  "Willy  here, 
And  1  am  older,  two  good  years,  than  he  ; 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   SNOW.         185 

No,  let  us  have  a  tale  of  elves  that  ride, 

By  night,  with  jingling  reins,  or  gnomes  of  the 

mine, 

Or  water-fairies,  such  as  you  know  how 
To  spin,  till  Willy's  eyes  forget  to  wink, 
And  good  Aunt  Mary,  busy  as  she  is, 
Lays  down  her  knitting. 

Uncle  John. —         Listen  to  me,  then. 
'Twas  in  the  olden  time,  long,  long  ago, 
And  long  before  the  great  oak  at  our  door 
Was  yet  an  acorn,  on  a  mountain's  side 
Lived,  with  his  wife,  a  cottager.     They  dwelt 
Beside  a  glen  and  near  a  dashing  brook, 
A  pleasant  spot  in  spring,  where  first  the  wren 
Was  heard  to  chatter,  and,  among  the  grass, 
Flowers  opened    earliest ;    but,   when  winter 

came, 

That  little  brook  was  fringed  with  other  flow 
ers, — 

White  flowers,  with  crystal  leaf  and  stem,  that 
grew 


186  POEMS. 

In  clear  November  nights.    And,  later  still, 
That  mountain  glen  was  filled  with  drifted 

snows 

From  side  to  side,  that  one  might  walk  across, 
While,  many  a  fathom  deep,  below,  the  brook 
Sang  to  itself,  and  leaped  and  trotted  on 
Unfrozen,  o'er  its  pebbles,  toward  the  vale. 
Alice. — A  mountain's  side,  you   said ;    the 

Alps,  perhaps, 
Or  our  own  Alleghanies. 

Uncle  John. —  Not  so  fast, 

My  young  geographer,  for  then  the  Alps, 
With  their  broad  pastures,  haply  were  untrod 
Of  herdsman's  foot,  and  never  human  voice 
Had  sounded  in  the  woods  that  overhang 
Our  Alleghany's  streams.     I  think  it  was 
Upon  the  slopes  of  the  great  Caucasus, 
Or  where  the  rivulets  of  Ararat 
Seek  the  Armenian  vales.    That  mountain  rose 
So  high,  that,  on  its  top,  the  winter  snow 
Was  never  melted,  and  the  cottagers 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE   OF  THE   SNOW.         187 

Among  the  summer  blossoms,  far  below, 

Saw  its  white  peaks  in  August  from  their  door. 

One  little  maiden,  in  that  cottage  home, 
Dwelt  with  her  parents,  light  of  heart  and  limb, 
Bright,  restless,  thoughtless,  flitting  here  and 

there, 

Like  sunshine  on  the  uneasy  ocean  waves, 
And  sometimes  she  forgot  what  she  was  bid, 
As  Alice  does. 

Alice. —  Or  Willy,  quite  as  oft. 

Uncle  John. — But  you  are  older,  Alice,  two 

good  years, 

And  should  be  wiser.     Eva  was  the  name 
Of  this  young  maiden,  now  twelve  summers 

old. 
Now  you  must  know  that,  in  those  early 

times, 
When  autumn  days  grew  pale,  there  came  a 

troop 
Of  childlike  forms  from  that  cold  mountain 

top; 


188  POEMS. 

With  trailing  garments  through  the  air  they 

came, 
Or  walked  the  ground  with  girded  loins,  and 

threw 

Spangles  of  silvery  frost  upon  the  grass, 
And  edged  the  brook  with  glistening  parapets, 
And  built  it  crystal  bridges,  touched  the  pool, 
And  turned  its  face  to  glass,  or,  rising  thence, 
They  shook,  from  their  full  laps,  the  soft,  light 

snow, 

And  buried  the  great  earth,  as  autumn,  winds 
Bury  the  forest  floor  in  heaps  of  leaves. 

A  beautiful  race  were  they,  with  baby  brows, 
And  fair,  bright  locks,  and  voices  like  the  sound 
Of  steps  on  the  crisp  snow,  in  which  they 

talked 
With  man,  as  friend  with  friend.     A  merry 

sight 

It  was,  when,  crowding  round  the  traveller, 
They  smote  him  with  their  heaviest  snow  flakes, 

flung 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE   OF   THE    SNOW.          189 

Needles  of  frost  in  handfuls  at  his  cheeks, 
And,  of  the  light  wreaths  of  his  smoking  breath, 
"Wove  a  white  fringe  for  his  brown  beard,  and 

laughed 

Their  slender  laugh  to  see  him  wink  and  grin 
And  make  grim,  faces  as  he  floundered  on. 

But,  when  the  spring  came  on,  what  terror 

reigned 

Among  these  Little  People  of  the  Snow ! 
To  them  the  sun's  warm  beams  were  shafts  of 

fire, 

And  the  soft  south  wind  was  the  wind  of  death. 
Away  they  flew,  all  with  a  pretty  scowl 
Upon  their  childish  faces,  to  the  north, 
Or  scampered  upward  to  the  mountain's  top, 
And  there  defied  their  enemy,  the  Spring  ; 
Skipping  and  dancing  on  the  frozen  peaks, 
And  moulding  little  snow-balls  in  their  palms, 
And  rolling  them,  to  crush  her  flowers  below, 
Down  the  steep  snow-fields. 

Alice.—        That,  too,  must  have  been 
A  merry  sight  to  look  at. 


190  POEMS. 

Uncle  John. —        You  are  right, 
But  I  must  speak  of  graver  matters  now. 

Mid-winter  was  the  time,  and  Eva  stood, 
Within  the  cottage,  all  prepared  to  dare 
The  outer  cold,  with  ample  furry  robe 
Close  belted  round  her  waist,  and  boots  of  fur, 
And   a  broad  kerchief,   which    her   mother's 

hand 

Had  closely  drawn  about  her  ruddy  cheek. 
"Now,  stay  not  long  abroad,"  said  the  good 

dame, 

"  For  sharp  is  the  outer  air,  and,  mark  me  well, 
Go  not  upon  the  snow  beyond  the  spot 
Where  the  great  linden  bounds  the  neighboring 

field." 

The  little  maiden  promised,  and  went  forth, 
And  climbed  the  rounded  snow-swells  firm  with 

frost 

Beneath  her  feet,  and  slid,  with  balancing  arms, 
Into  the  hollows.     Once,  as  up  a  drift 
She  slowly  rose,  before  her,  in  the  way, 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE   OF   THE  SNOW.         191 

She  saw  a  little  creature  lily-cheeked, 

With  flowing  flaxen  locks,  and  faint  blue  eyes, 

That  gleamed  like  ice,   and    robe   that   only 
seemed 

Of  a  more  shadowy  whiteness  than  her  cheek. 

On  a  smooth  bank  she  sat. 
Alice. —        She  must  have  been 

One  of  your  Little  People  of  the  Snow. 

Uncle  John. — She  was  so,  and,  as  Eva  now 
drew  near, 

The  tiny  creature  bounded  from  her  seat ; 

"  And  come,"  she  said,  "  my  pretty  friend ;  to 
day 

We  will  be  playmates.     I  have  watched  thee 
long, 

And  seen  how  well  thou  lov'st  to  walk  these 
drifts, 

And  scoop  their  fair  sides  into  little  cells, 

And  carve  them  with   quaint  figures,  huge- 
limbed  men, 

Lions,  and  griffins.     We  will  have,  to-day, 


192  POEMS. 

A  merry  ramble  over  these  bright  fields, 
And  thou  shalt  see  what  thou  hast  never  seen." 
On  went  the  pair,  until  they  reached  the 

bound 

Where  the  great  linden  stood,  set  deep  in  snow, 
Up  to  the  lower  branches.     "  Here  we  stop," 
Said  Eva,  "  for  my  mother  has  my  word 
That  I  will  go  no  further  than  this'  tree." 
Then  the  snow-maiden  laughed  ;  "  And  what  is 

this  ? 

This  fear  of  the  pure  snow,  the  innocent  snow, 
That  never  harmed  aught  living  ?    Thou  may'st 

roam 

For  leagues  beyond  this  garden,  and  return 
In  safety  ;  here  the  grim  wolf  never  prowls, 
And  here  the  eagle  of  our  mountain  crags 
Preys  not  in  winter.     I  will  show  the  way 
And  bring  thee   safely  home.     Thy  mother, 


sure 


Counselled  thee  thus  because  thou  hadst  no 
guide." 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   SNOW.         193 

By  such  smooth  words  was  Eva  won  to 

break 

Her  promise,  and  went  on  with  her  new  friend, 
Over  the  glistening  snow  and  down  a  bank 
Where  a  white  shelf,  wrought  by  the  eddying 

wind, 

Like  to  a  billow's  crest  in  the  great  sea, 
Curtained  an  opening.     "  Look,  we  enter  here." 
And   straight,    beneath    the  fair    o'erhanging 

fold, 

Entered  the  little  pair  that  hill  of  snow, 
Walking  along  a  passage  with  white  walls, 
And  a  white  vault  above  where    snow-stars 

shed 

A  wintry  twilight.     Eva  moved  in  awe, 
And  held    her  peace,   but  the    snow-maiden 

smiled, 
And  talked  and  tripped  along,  as,  down  the 

way, 

Deeper    they    went    into    that    mountainous 
drift. 
9 


194  POEMS. 

And  now  the  white  walls  widened,  and  the 

vault 

Swelled  upward,  like  some  vast  cathedral  dome, 
Such  as  the  Florentine,  who  bore  the  name 
Of  heaven's  most  potent   angel,  reared,  long 

since, 

Or  the  unknown  builder  of  that  wondrous  fane, 
The  glory  of  Burgos.     Here  a  garden  lay, 
In  which  the  Little  People  of  the  Snow 
Were  wont  to  take  their  pastime  when  their 

tasks 

Upon  the  mountain's  side  and  in  the  clouds 
"Were  ended.     Here  they  taught  the  silent  frost 
To  mock,  in  stem  and  spray,  and  leaf  and  flow 
er, 

The  growths  of  summer.     Here  the  palm  up- 
reared 

Its  white  columnar  trunk  and  spotless  sheaf 
Of  plume-like  leaves;   here  cedars,   huge   as 

those 
Of  Lebanon,  stretched  far  their  level  boughs, 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE   OF   THE    SNOW.         195 

Yet  pale  and  shadowless ;  the  sturdy  oak 
Stood,  with  its  huge  gnarled  roots  of  seeming 

strength, 
Fast  anchored  in  the  glistening  bank ;   light 

sprays 

Of  myrtle,  roses  in  their  bud  and  bloom, 
Drooped  by  the  winding  walks  ;  yet  all  seemed 

wrought 

Of  stainless  alabaster ;  up  the  trees 
Ran  the  lithe  jessamine,  with  stalk  and  leaf 
Colorless  as  her  flowers.     "  Go  softly  on," 
Said  the  snow  maiden ;  "  touch  not,  with  thy 

hand, 

The  frail  creation  round  thee,  and  beware 
To  sweep  it  with  thy  skirts.     Now  look  above. 
How  sumptuously  these  bowers  are  lighted  up 
"With  shifting  gleams  that  softly  come  and  go. 
These  are  the   northern  lights,  such  as  thou 

seest 
In    the    midwinter    nights,    cold,    wandering 

flames, 


196  POEMS. 

That  float,  with  our  processions,  through  the 

air; 

And  here,  within  our  winter  palaces, 
Mimic  the  glorious  daybreak."     Then  she  told 
How,  when  the  wind,  in  the  long  winter  nights, 
Swept  the  light  snows  into  the  hollow  dell, 
She  and  her  comrades  guided  to  its  place 
Each  wandering  flake,  and  piled  them  quaintly 

up, 

In  shapely  colonnade  and  glistening  arch, 
With  shadowy  aisles  between,  or  bade  them 

grow, 

Beneath  their  little  hands,  to  bowery  walks 
In  gardens  such  as  these,  and,  o'er  them  all, 
Built  the  broad  roof.  "  But  thou  hast  yet  to 

see 

A  fairer  sight,"  she  said,  and  led  the  way 
To  where  a  window  of  pellucid  ice 
Stood  in  the  wall  of  snow,  beside  their  path. 
"  Look,  but  thou    mayst    not    enter."      Eva 

looked, 


THE    LITTLE    PEOPLE    OF   THE    SNOW.          197 

And  lo !  a  glorious  hall,  from  whose  high  vault 
Stripes  of  soft  light,  ruddy,  and  delicate  green, 
And  tender  blue,  flowed  downward  to  the  floor 
And  far  around,  as  if  the  aerial  hosts, 
That    march   on  high  by  night,  with  beamy 

spears, 
And    streaming    banners,   to   that  place  had 

brought 
Their  radiant  flags  to  grace  a  festival. 

And  in  that  hall  a  joyous  multitude 
Of  those  by  whom  its  glistening  walls  were 

reared, 

Whirled  in  a  merry  dance  to  silvery  sounds, 
That  rang  from  cymbals  of  transparent  ice, 
And  ice-cups,  quivering  to  the  skilful  touch 
Of  little  fingers.     Round  and  round  they  flew, 
As  when,  in  spring,  about  a  chimney  top, 
A  cloud  of  twittering  swallows,  just  returned, 
Wheel  round  and  round,  and  turn  and  wheel 

again, 
Unwinding  their  swift  track.     So  rapidly 


198  POEMS. 

Flowed  the  meandering  stream  of  that  fair 

dance, 
Beneath  that  dome  of  light.     Bright  eyes  that 

looked 

From  under  lily  brows,  and  gauzy  scarfs 
Sparkling  like  snow-wreaths  in  the  early  sun, 
Shot  by  the  window  in  their  mazy  whirl. 
And  there  stood  Eva,  wondering  at  the  sight 
Of  those  bright  revellers   and  that  graceful 

sweep 

Of  motion  as  they  passed  her  ; — long  she  gazed, 
And  listened  long  to  the  sweet  sounds  that 

thrilled 

The  frosty  air,  till  now  the  encroaching  cold 
Recalled  her  to  herself.     "  Too  long,  too  long 
I  linger  here,"  she  said,  and  then  she  sprang 
Into  the  path,  and  with  a  hurried  step 
Followed  it  upward.     Ever  by  her  side 
Her  little  guide  kept  pace.     As  on  they  went 
Eva  bemoaned  her  fault;  "What  must  they 

think — 


THE   LITTLE    PEOPLE    OF   THE    SNOW.         199 

The  dear  ones  in  the  cottage,  while  so  long, 
Hour  after  hour,  I  stay  without  ?     I  know 
That  they  will  seek  me  far  and  near,  and  weep 
To  find  me  not.     How  could  I,  wickedly 
Neglect  the  charge  they  gave  me  3  "     As  she 

spoke, 

The  hot  tears  started  to  her  eyes ;  she  knelt 
In  the  mid  path.     "  Father !  forgive  this  sin ; 
Forgive  myself  I  cannot " — thus  she  prayed, 
And  rose   and  hastened   onward.     When,   at 

last, 
They  reached  the  outer  air,  the  clear  north 

breathed 
A  bitter  cold,  from  which   she   shrank  with 

dread, 

But  the  snow-maiden  bounded  as  she  felt 
The  cutting  blast,  and  uttered  shouts  of  joy, 
And  skipped,  with  boundless  glee,  from  drift  to 

drift, 

And  danced  round  Eva,  as  she  labored  up 
The  mounds  of  snow,     "  Ah  me !  I  feel  my  eyes 


200  POEMS. 

Grow   heavy,"  Eva  said;    "they  swim  with 

sleep ; 

I  cannot  walk  for  utter  weariness, 
And  I  must  rest  a  moment  on  this  bank, 
But  let  it  not  be  long."     As  thus  she  spoke, 
In  half-formed  words,  she  sank  on  the  smooth 

snow, 
With  closing  lids.     Her  guide  composed  the 

robe 

About  her  limbs,  and  said,  "  A  pleasant  spot 
Is  this  to  slumber  in  ;  on  such  a  couch 
Oft  have  I  slept  away  the  winter  night, 
And  had  the  sweetest  dreams."     So  Eva  slept, 
But  slept  in  death  ;  for  when  the  power  of  frost 
Locks  up  the  motions  of  the  living  frame, 
The  victim  passes  to  the  realm  of  Death 
Through  the  dim  porch  of  Sleep.     The  little 

guide, 

Watching  beside  her,  saw  the  hues  of  life 
Fade  from  the  fair  smooth  brow  and  rounded 

cheek, 


THE   LITTLE   PEOPLE   OF   THE    SNOW.         201 

As  fades  the  crimson  from  a  morning  cloud, 
Till  they  were  white  as  marble,  and  the  breath 
Had  ceased  to  come  and  go,  yet  knew  she  not 
At  first  that  this  was  death.     But  when  she 

marked 

How  deep  the  paleness  was,  how  motionless 
That  once  lithe  form,  a  fear  came  over  her. 
She  strove  to  wake  the  sleeper,  plucked  her 

robe, 

And  shouted  in  her  ear,  but  all  in  vain ; 
The  life  had  passed  away  from  those  young 

limbs. 

Then  the  snow-maiden  raised  a  wailing  cry, 
Such  as  the  dweller  in  some  lonely  wild, 
Sleepless  through  all  the  long  December  night, 
Hears  when  the  mournful  East  begins  to  blow. 
But  suddenly  was  heard  the  sound  of  steps, 
Grating  on  the  crisp  snow ;  the  cottagers 
Were  seeking  Eva ;  from  afar  they  saw 
The  twain,  and  hurried  toward  them.     As  they 

came, 
9* 


202  POEMS. 

With  gentle  chidings  ready  on  their  lips, 
And  marked  that  deathlike  sleep,  and  heard  the 

tale 

Of  the  snow-maiden,  mortal  anguish  fell 
Upon  their  hearts,  and  bitter  words  of  grief 
And  blame  were  uttered  :  "  Cruel,  cruel  one, 
To  tempt  our  daughter  thus,  and  cruel  we, 
Who  suffered  her  to  wander  forth  alone 
In   this  fierce   cold."      They  lifted  the   dear 

child, 
And   bore  her  home   and  chafed  her  tender 

limbs, 

And  strove,  by  all  the  simple  arts  they  knew, 
To  make  the  chilled  blood  move,  and  win  the 

breath 

Back  to  her  bosom ;  fruitlessly  they  strove. 
The  little  maid  was  dead.     In  blank  despair 
They  stood,  and  gazed  at  her  who  never  more 
Should  look  on  them.     "  Why  die  we  not  with 

her?" 
They  said  ;  "  without  her  life  is  bitterness." 


THE   LITTLE    PEOPLE    OF   THE    SNOW.         203 

Now  came  the  funeral  day  ;  the  simple  folk 
Of  all  that  pastoral  region  gathered  round, 
To  share  the  sorrow  of  the  cottagers. 
They  carved  a  way  into  the  mound  of  snow 
To  the  glen's  side,  and  dug  a  little  grave 
In  the  smooth  slope,  and,  following  the  bier, 
In  long  procession  from  the  silent  door, 
Chanted  a  sad  and  solemn  melody. 

"  Lay  her  away  to  rest  within  the  ground. 
Yea,  lay  her  down  whose  pure  and  innocent 

life 
Was   spotless   as  these   snows ;    for  she   was 

reared 
In  love,   and    passed  in  love   life's   pleasant 

spring, 

And  all  that  now  our  tenderest  love  can  do 
Is  to  give  burial  to  her  lifeless  limbs." 

They  paused.     A  thousand  slender  voices 

round, 

Like  echoes  softly  flung  from  rock  and  hill, 
Took  up  the  strain,  and  all  the  hollow  air 


204  POEMS. 

Seemed  mourning  for  the  dead;  for,  on  that 

day, 

The  Little  People  of  the  Snow  had  come, 
From  mountain  peak,  and  cloud,  and  icy  hall, 
To  Eva's  burial.     As  the  murmur  died 
The  funeral  train  renewed  the  solemn  chant. 
"  Thou,  Lord,  hast  taken  her  to  be  with 

Eve, 

Whose  gentle  name  was  given  her.     Even  so, 
For  so  Thy  wisdom  saw  that  it  was  best 
For  her  and  us.     We  bring  our  bleeding  hearts, 
And  ask  the  touch  of  healing  from  Thy  hand, 
As,  with  submissive  tears,  we  render  back 
The  lovely  and  beloved  to  Him  who  gave." 
They  ceased.     Again  the  plaintive  mur 
mur  rose. 
From    shadowy  skirts   of   low-hung   cloud  it 

came, 
And  wide  white  fields,  and  fir-trees  capped 

with  snow, 

Shivering  to  the  sad  sounds.     They  sank  away 
To  silence  in  the  dim -seen  distant  woods. 


THE   LITTLE    PEOPLE    OF   THE    SNOW.         205 

The  little  grave  was  closed ;  the  funeral 

train 

Departed  ;  winter  wore  away  ;  the  spring 
Steeped,  with  her  quickening  rains,  the  violet 

tufts, 
By   fond    hands   planted    where   the    maiden 

slept. 

But,  after  Eva's  burial,  never  more 
The  Little  People  of  the  Snow  were  seen 
By  human  eye,  nor  ever  human  ear 
Heard     from     their     lips,    articulate    speech 

again ; 

For  a  decree  went  forth  to  cut  them  off, 
Forever,  from  communion  with  mankind. 
The  winter  clouds,  along  the  mountain-side, 
Boiled  downward  toward  the  vale,  but  no  fair 

form 

Leaned  from  their  folds,  and,  in  the  icy  glens, 
And  aged  woods,  under  snow-loaded  pines, 
"Where  once  they  made  their  haunt,  was  emp 
tiness. 


206  POEMS. 

But  ever,  when  the  wintry  days  drew  near, 
Around  that  little  grave,  in  the  long  night, 
Frost-wreaths  were  laid  and  tufts  of  silvery 

rime 

In  shape  like  blades  and  blossoms  of  the  field, 
As  one  would  scatter  flowers  upon  a  bier. 


THE    POET. 

THOU,  who  wonldst  wear  the  name 

Of  poet  mid  thy  brethren  of  mankind, 

And  clothe  in  words  of  flame 

Thoughts  that  shall  live  within  the  general 
mind! 

Deem  not  the  framing  of  a  deathless  lay 

The  pastime  of  a  drowsy  summer  day. 

But  gather  all  thy  powers, 

And  wreak  them  on  the  verse  that  thou  dost 

weave, 
And  in  thy  lonely  hours. 

At  silent  morning  or  at  wakeful  eve, 


208  POEMS. 

While  the  warm  current  tingles  through  thy 

veins, 
Set  forth  the  burning  words  in  fluent  strains. 


"No  smooth  array  of  phrase, 

Artfully  sought  and  ordered  though  it  be, 
Which  the  cold  rhymer  lays 

Upon  his  page  with  languid  industry, 
Can  wake  the  listless  pulse  to  livelier  speed, 
Or  fill  with  sudden  tears  the  eyes  that  read. 


The  secret  wouldst  thou  know 

To  touch  the  heart  or  fire  the  blood  at  will  ? 
Let  thine  own  eyes  overflow ; 

Let  thy   lips    quiver    with    the    passionate 

thrill; 
Seize  the  great  thought,  ere  yet  its  power  be 

past, 
And  bind,  in  words,  the  fleet  emotion  fast. 


THE    POET.  209 

Then,  should  thy  verse  appear 

Halting  and  harsh,  and  all  unaptly  wrought, 
Touch  the  crude  line  with  fear, 

Save  in  the  moment  of  impassioned  thought ; 
Then    summon    back  the   original  glow   and 

mend 

The   strain  with  rapture  that  with  fire  was 
penned. 

Yet  let  no  empty  gust 

Of  passion  find  an  utterance  in  thy  lay, 
A  blast  that  whirls  the  dust 

Along  the  howling  street  and  dies  away  ; 
But  feelings  of  calm  power  and  mighty  sweep, 
Like  currents  journeying  through  the  windless 
deep. 

Seek'st  thou,  in  living  lays, 

To  limn  the  beauty  of  the  earth  and  sky  ? 
Before  thine  inner  gaze 

Let  all  that  beauty  in  clear  vision  lie  ; 


210  POEMS. 

Look  on  it  with  exceeding  love,  and  write 
The  words  inspired  by  wonder  and  delight. 

Of  tempests  wouldst  thou  sing, 

Or  tell  of  battles — make  thyself  a  part 

Of  the  great  tumult ;  cling 

To  the  tossed  wreck  with  terror  in  thy  heart ; 

Scale,  with  the  assaulting  host,  the  rampart's 
height, 

And  strike  and  struggle  in  the  thickest  fight. 

So  shalt  thou  frame  a  lay 

That  haply  may  endure  from  age  to  age, 
And  they  who  read  shall  say : 

What  witchery  hangs  upon  this  poet's  page ! 
"What  art  is  his  the  written  spells  to  find 
That   sway  from  mood  to  mood  the   willing 
mind  I 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


Page  40. 

THE   LOST   BIED. 

READEKS  who  are  acquainted  with  the  Spanish  lan 
guage  may  not  be  displeased  at  seeing  the  original  of  this 
little  poem : 

EL   PAJAEO   PEEDIDO. 

Huyo  con  veielo  incierto, 
Y  de  mis  ojos  ha  desparecido, 

Mirad,  si,  a  vuestro  huerto, 
Mi  pajaro  querido, 
Nifias  hermosas,  por  acaso  ha  huido. 


214  NOTES. 


Sus  ojos  relucientes 

Son  como  los  del  aguila  orgullosa ; 
Plumas  resplandecientes, 

En  Ja  cabeza  ariosa, 

Lleva ;  y  su  voz  es  tierna  y  armoniosa. 

Mirad,  si  cuidadoso 

Junto  a  las  flores  se  escondio  en  la  grama. 
Ese  laurel  frondoso 

Mirad,  rama  por  rarna, 

Que  el  los  laureles  y  les  flores  am  a. 

Si  le  hallais,  per  ventura, 

No  os  enamore  su  amoroso  acento ; 
ISTo  os  prende  su  hermosura ; 

Yolvedmele  al  momento ; 

O  dejadle,  si  no,  libre  en  el  viento. 

Por  que  su  pico  de  oro 

Solo  en  mi  mano  toma  la  semilla ; 
Y  no  enjugare"  el  lloro 

Que  veis  en  mi  mejilla, 

Hasta  encontrar  mi  profugo  avecilla. 


NOTES.  215 

Mi  vista  se  oscurece, 

Si  sus  ojos  no  ve,  que  son  mi  dia. 

Mi  anima  desfallece 
Con  la  melancolia 
De  no  escucharle  ya  su  melodiu. 

The  literature  of  Spain  at  the  present  day  has  this 
peculiarity,  that  female  wrijbers  have,  in  considerable 
number,  entered  into  competition  with  the  other  sex. 
One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  these,  as  a  writer  of  both 
prose  and  poetry,  is  Carolina  Coronado  de  Perry,  the  au 
thor  of  the  little  poem  here  given.  The  poetical  litera 
ture  of  Spain  has  felt  the  influence  of  the  female  mind 
in  the  infusion  of  a  certain  delicacy  and  tenderness,  and 
the  more  frequent  choice  of  subjects  which  interest  the 
domestic  affections.  Concerning  the  verses  of  the  lady 
already  mentioned,  Don  Juan  Eugenio  Hartzenbusch, 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  Spanish  critics  of  the  pres 
ent  day,  and  himself  a  successful  dramatic  writer,  says  : 

"  If  Carolina  Coronado  had,  through  modesty,  sent 
her  productions  from  Estremadura  to  Madrid  under  the 
name  of  a  person  of  the  other  sex,  it  would  still  have 
been  difficult  for  intelligent  readers  to  persuade  them 
selves  that  they  were  written  by  a  man,  or  at  least,  con- 


216  NOTES. 

sidering  their  graceful  sweetness,  purity  of  tone,  simplicity 
of  conception,  brevity  of  development,  and  delicate  and 
particular  choice  of  subject,  we  should  be  constrained  to 
attribute  them  to  one  yet  in  his  early  youth,  whom  the 
imagination  would  represent  as  ingenuous,  innocent  and 
gay,  who  had  scarce  ever  wandered  beyond  the  flowery 
grove  or  pleasant  valley  where  his  cradle  was  rocked, 
and  where  he  had  been  killed  to  sleep  by  the  sweetest 
songs  of  Francisco  de  la  Torre,  Garcilaso  and  Melendez." 
The  author  of  the  Pajaro  Perdido,  according  to  a  me 
moir  of  her  by  Angel  Fernandez  de  los  Eios,  was  born 
at  Almendralejo,  in  Estremadura,  in  1823.  At  the  age 
of  nine  years  she  began  to  steal  from  sleep,  after  a  day 
passed  in  various  lessons,  and  in  domestic  occupations, 
several  hours  every  night  to  read  the  poets  of  her  coun 
try,  and  other  books  belonging  to  the  library  of  the 
household,  among  which  is  mentioned  as  a  proof  of 
her  vehement  love  of  reading,  the  Critical  History  of 
Spain,  by  the  Abb6  Masuden,  "  and  other  works  equally 
dry  and  prolix."  She  was  afterwards  sent  to  Badajoz, 
where  she  received  the  best  education  which  the  state  of 
the  country,  then  on  fire  with  a  civil  war,  would  admit. 
Here  the  intensity  of  her  application  to  her  studies 
caused  a  severe  malady,  which  has  frequently  recurred 


NOTES.  217 

in  after  life.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  years  she  wrote  a 
poem  entitled  La  Palma,  which  the  author  of  her  biog 
raphy  declares  to  be  worthy  of  Herrera,  and  which  led 
Espronceda,  a  poet  of  Estremadura,  a  man  of  genius,  and 
the  author  of  several  translations  from  Byron,  whom  he 
resembled  both  in  mental  and  personal  characteristics,  to 
address  her  an  eulogistic  sonnet.  In  1843,  when  she  was 
but  twenty  years  old,  a  volume  of  her  poems  was  pub 
lished  at  Madrid,  in  which  were  included  both  that  enti 
tled  La  Palma,  and  the  one  I  have  given  in  this  note. 
To  this  volume  Hartzenbusch,  in  his  admiration  for  her 
genius,  prefaced  an  introduction. 

The  task  of  writing  verses  in  Spanish  is  not  difficult. 
Rhymes  are  readily  found,  and  the  language  is  easily 
moulded  into  metrical  forms.  Those  who  have  distin 
guished  themselves  in  this  literature  have  generally  made 
their  first  essays  in  verse.  What  is  remarkable  enough,  the 
men  who  afterwards  figure  in  political  life  mostly  begin 
their  career  as  the  authors  of  madrigals.  A  poem  intro 
duces  the  future  statesman  to  the  public,  as  a  speech  at  a 
popular  meeting  introduces  the  candidate  for  political  dis 
tinction  in  this  country.  I  have  heard  of  but  one  of  the 
eminent  Spanish  politicians  of  the  present  time,  who 
made  a  boast  that  he  was  innocent  of  poetry,  and  if  all 
10 


218  NOTES. 

that  his  enemies  say  of  him  be  true,  it  would  have  been 
well  both  for  his  country  and  his  own  fame,  if  he  had 
been  equally  innocent  of  corrupt  practices.  The  compo 
sitions  of  Carolina  Coronado,  even  her  earliest,  do  not 
deserve  to  be  classed  with  the  productions  of  which  we 
have  spoken,  and  which  are  simply  the  effect  of  inclina 
tion  and  facility.  They  possess  the  mens  dimnior. 

In  1852  a  collection  of  the  poems  of  Carolina  Coro 
nado  was  brought  out  at  Madrid,  including  those  which 
were  first  published.  The  subjects  are  of  larger  variety 
than  those  which  prompted  her  earlier  productions ; 
some  of  them  are  of  a  religious  cast,  others  refer  to  po 
litical  matters.  One  of  them,  which  appears  among  the 
"Improvisations,"  is  an  energetic  protest  against  erect 
ing  a  new  amphitheatre  for  bull-fights.  The  spirit  of  all 
her  poetry  is  humane  and  friendly  to  the  best  interests  of 
mankind. 

Her  writings  in  prose  must  not  be  overlooked. 
Among  them  is  a  novel  entitled  Sigea,  founded  on  the 
adventures  of  Camoens ;  another  entitled  Jorilla,  a  beau 
tiful  story,  full  of  pictures  of  rural  life  in  Estremadura, 
which  deserves,  if  it  could  find  a  competent  translator,  to 
be  transferred  to  our  language.  Besides  these  there  are 
two  other  novels  from  her  pen,  Paquita  and  La  LUZ  del 


NOTES.    ,  219 

Tejo.  A  few  years  since  appeared,  in  a  Madrid  periodi 
cal,  the  Semanario,  a  series  of  letters  written  by  her,  giv 
ing  an  account  of  the  impressions  received  in  a  journey 
from  the  Tagus  to  the  Rhine,  including  a  visit  to  Eng 
land.  Among  the  subjects  on  which  she  has  written,  is 
the  idea,  still  warmly  cherished  in  Spam,  of  uniting  the 
entire  peninsula  under  one  government.  In  an  ably  con 
ducted  journal  of  Madrid,  she  has  given  accounts  of  the 
poetesses  of  Spain,  her  contemporaries,  with  extracts 
from  their  writings,  and  a  kindly  estimate  of  their  re 
spective  merits. 

Her  biographer  speaks  of  her  activity  and  efficiency 
in  charitable  enterprises,  her  interest  in  the  cause  of 
education,  her  visits  to  the  primary  schools  of  Madrid, 
encouraging  and  rewarding  the  pupils,  and  her  patron 
age  of  the  escuela  de  parvulos,  or  infant  school,  at  Bada- 
joz,  established  by  a  society  in  that  city,  with  the  design 
of  improving  the  education  of  the  laboring  class. 

It  must  have  been  not  long  after  the  publication  of 
her  poems,  in  1852,  that  Carolina  Ooronado  became  the 
wife  of  an  American  gentleman,  Mr.  Horatio  J.  Perry,  at 
one  time  our  Secretary  of  Legation  at  the  Court  of  Ma 
drid,  afterwards  our  Charge  d?  Affaires,  and  now,  in  1863, 
again  Secretary  of  Legation.  Amidst  the  duties  of  a  wife 


220  NOTES. 

and  mother,  which  she  fulfils  with  exemplary  fidelity  and 
grace,  she  has  not  either  forgotten  or  forsaken  the  lite 
rary  pursuits  which  have  given  her  so  high  a  reputation. 

Page  90. 

THE   KUINS   OF   ITALICA. 

The  poems  of  the  Spanish  author,  Francisco  de  Eioja, 
who  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  are 
few  in  number,  but  much  esteemed.  His  ode  on  the 
Euins  of  Italica  is  one  of  the  most  admired  of  these,  but 
in  the  only  collection  of  his  poems  which  I  have  seen,  it 
is  said  that  the  concluding  stanza,  in  the  original  copy, 
was  deemed  so  little  worthy  of  the  rest  that  it  was  pur 
posely  omitted  in  the  publication.  Italica  was  a  city 
founded  by  the  Romans  in  the  South  of  Spain,  the  re 
mains  of  which  are  still  an  object  of  interest. 

Page  118. 

SELL A. 

Sella  is  the  name  given  by  the  Vulgate  to  one  of  the 
wives  of  Lamech,  mentioned  in  the  fourth  chapter  of 
the  Book  of  Genesis,  and  called  Zillah  in  the  common 
English  version  of  the  Bible. 


NOTES.  221 

Page  150. 
HOMEK'S  ODYSSEY,  BOOK  v..  TKANSLATED. 

It  may  be  esteemed  presumptuous  in  the  author  of 
this  volume  to  attempt  a  translation  of  any  part  of 
Homer  in  blank  verse  after  that  of  Cowper.  It  has  al 
ways  seemed  to  him,  however,  that  Cowper's  version 
had  very  great  defects.  The  style  of  Homer  is  simple, 
and  he  has  been  praised  for  fire  and  rapidity  of  narra 
tive.  Does  any  body  find  these  qualities  in  Oowper's 
Homer  ?  If  Oowper  had  rendered  him  into  such  English 
as  he  employed  in  his  "Task,"  there  would  be  no  reason 
to  complain ;  but  in  translating  Homer  he  seems  to  have 
thought  it  necessary  to  use  a  different  style  from  that  of 
his  original  works.  Almost  every  sentence  is  stiffened  by 
some  clumsy  inversion ;  stately  phrases  are  used  when 
simpler  ones  were  at  hand,  and  would  have  ren 
dered  the  meaning  of  the  original  better.  The  entire 
version  has  the  appearance  of  being  hammered  out  with 
great  labor,  and  as  a  whole  it  is  cold  and  constrained ; 
scarce  anything  seems  spontaneous ;  it  is  only  now  and 
then  that  the  translator  has  caught  the  fervor  of  his 
author.  Homer,  of  course,  wrote  in  idiomatic  Greek, 
and,  in  order  to  produce  either  a  true  copy  of  the  original 


222  NOTES. 

or  an  agreeable  poem,  should  have  been  translated  into 
idiomatic  English. 

I  am  almost  ashamed,  after  this  censure  of  an  author, 
whom,  in  the  main,  I  admire  so  much  as  I  do  Oowper, 
to  refer  to  my  own  translation  of  the  Fifth  Book  of  the 
Odyssey.  I  desire  barely  to  say  that  I  have  endeavored 
to  give  the  verses  of  the  old  Greek  poet  at  least  a  simpler 
presentation  in  English,  and  one  more  conformable  to 
the  genius  of  our  language. 


THE     END  . 


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In  if  M  hi 


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